


Accidentally In Love

by PeriPeriwinkle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abusive Parents, Fluff, M/M, Moving Out, Police Power Abuse, Slow Burn, Stripping, Texting, The quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 06:59:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8046727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeriPeriwinkle/pseuds/PeriPeriwinkle
Summary: Dorian has left Tevinter after finding out about his father's plans, heading to cold Ferelden to build his life back up from scratch. But things aren't as easy as he predicted. In fact, things aren't anywhere near as easy as he predicted. With his funds slowly coming to an end and the government refusing to grant him asylum, plus what seems like every single Fereldan turning up their noses at his job applications, when all hope seems to have come to an end - the strange qunari from next door reaches a hand out to him.And if the man is also drop dead gorgeous, well - who can blame him for responding to a bit of harmless flirting?





	Accidentally In Love

**Author's Note:**

> This story would not have happened without [Koutou](http://0sometrashland0.tumblr.com/), who came up with the story and I just had the lovely work of bringing it to life. So this one is for you, Koutou <3 thank u for being so awesome!!!  
> Thank you to [Dee](http://dichotomous-dragon.tumblr.com/), who beta'd the fic, to [Kyan](http://stealthbaguette.tumblr.com/) and [Kas](http://elthadriel.tumblr.com/), who read it and helped me improve it, and of course, to the most lovely [Cri](http://sorellaerba.tumblr.com/), who illustrated this fic to perfection and beyond!!! [Here](http://sorellaerba.tumblr.com/post/150532221915/my-art-for-gobettis-beautiful-fanfiction-i-just)'s the link to her art on Tumblr!
> 
> I'm so glad to share this story with you all, and I hope you all love reading it as much as I loved writing it <3

“I overheard your father speaking on the phone earlier. He’s... he’s planning on using blood magic on you, Dorian, to-- to _fix you_.”

Two months.

Two months of house arrest, and that’s what he gets.

Somehow, Dorian suspected his parents weren’t planning to ever let him leave, but he didn’t think it was quite _that_ literal.

Nadine, the house servant assigned to bring him meals, places his room’s key in his hand. “You _must_ leave tonight,” she says, biting her bottom lip. “Your parents go to bed at ten, they’ll be asleep by eleven. Come through the kitchens, and we’ll... _oh_ , I’m sorry, Dorian, I am so sorry...”

“Don’t be,” he whispers. “Thank you for telling me.”

A suitcase, then, and a backpack. One under his bed and another in his closet. Things he uses for their family vacations, to visit the summer house his parents own in the countryside. He tears their zippers open and begins shoving everything he deems most important into them.

All his underwear and socks. Most of his jewelry. Some of his toiletries and his best razors. His three favorite pair of shoes. A couple of bed sheets and a blanket. About half of his outfits, all of them well-worn and loved dearly.

He unpacks and repacks his suitcase three times. The third time he manages to fit in his two of favorite books before zipping the bag up. In the backpack he puts his personal essentials: his computer, a pair of pajamas, wallet, cellphone charger, earplugs.

The clock ticks, ever so slowly, and Dorian watches it go as he tries and fails to pass the time by reading. His eyes scan the pages and doesn’t really read what's in them, the sound of his heartbeat too loud in his ears.

9:00 PM. 10:00 PM. 11:00 PM. And finally, it’s time.

Dorian gives one last look at his now half-empty bedroom, his heart aching for all the personal belongings he’s leaving behind. Things he’ll probably never see again in his life, things he _loves_. He wonders again if he’s ready for this, for leaving it all behind him.

But then he remembers the shouting, the arguments, the sneers of disgust to his face, all fueled by him simply being who he is. And then he thinks, these are just _things_. Objects, all easily replaceable. Okay, maybe not _easily_ , but he can most certainly make do without them.

 _He_ ’s not replaceable. No matter what his parents might think.

He shoulders his bag, wincing under its weight, then pulls up the arm of the suitcase up. At the door he hesitates, then walks back in, taking another book and a blank journal off his shelf, cradling them in his arm before walking away, leaving his room and his entire life behind.

Halfway through dragging his bags down the street he messages Felix.

 

 

 Dorian pockets his phone and concentrates back on walking, on pulling the bag behind him and fixing the strap on his shoulder, choking back tears that are threatening to spill over.

But he refuses to mourn the loss of his old life; he abhors the idea of giving his parents the satisfaction, even though they’re not around to know how deeply they still affect him. So he tilts his chin up, swallows past the lump on his throat, and marches on.

 

\---

 

He doesn’t sleep through the evening. Dorian spends it sitting in one of the wooden benches in the station, holding his belongings close as he watches the few people around walk by, the sun rise in the horizon, mind purposefully blank as he meditates while staying alert. In the first hours of the morning, as soon as the booths open, he buys a ticket to Crestwood, then calls his bank to allow him to use his debit and credit card outside the country and to make sure no one contacted them about cancelling any of his accounts. Everything is in his name and he earned the money on his own, through the paid internship he acquired while studying, but Tevinter will always be Tevinter and Dorian wouldn’t put it past his parents to do something that would make them get a hold of Dorian’s account just to further control his life.

He boards the bus at 9:00 AM in Tevinter, and although the company assured him it’d only be an eighteen-hour trip, halfway through they stop to switch bus drivers, and less than an hour later they stop again after they meet with complications on the road. Felix and Mae text him all the way through, keeping him company as he curls up miserably on his seat, unable to sleep despite the exhaustion that seeps deep into his bones, and neither one of them try to change his mind, for which Dorian is undeniably grateful. At 5:00 AM the next day he finally gets off the bus, letting all his tension and exhaustion out through a huff of breath.

A shady motel next to the road is the only place he finds to stay, but still Dorian doesn’t sleep. Instead, he buys a newspaper at the front desk, circling the apartment complexes he thinks are promising, and scowls at the jobs session, all of them asking for extensive background experience. Thankfully he has his savings. They’ll have to make do until he finds something suitable.

At about ten his phone rings, his parents’ name popping up on the screen as it had multiple times during the bus trip the previous day. For a second he thinks of ignoring it again, but a nagging feeling of insecurity drags on the back of his neck, and although he doesn’t believe Nadine would lie to him he’d like to get some sort of closure. A straight answer from the man himself.

He picks the phone up.

“ _Dorian! Maker, is that you?_ ”

“Yes, father, it is me,” Dorian says, making sure his voice is even. “Was there something you needed?”

“ _Something I...! You cannot be serious! Where in the world are you, Dorian?!_ ”

“Oh? Surprised I’m not locked in my room, where you last left me, father? However did that happen, isn’t it?”

“ _So, what? You just decided to take off, leave everything behind? Just like that? You ungrateful--_ ”

“You were planning on using blood magic on me to change me.” Dorian blurts out, interrupting his father. And waits.

Immediately the line goes quiet, whatever Halward was about to say catching on the man’s throat. Dorian had wondered how to confront him about it, how to ask him if it was true, but like this, stating it as a fact instead of a question, makes it all the easier. If Dorian knows his father he won’t deny it. He cannot. Not until it’s too late to make it sound convincing.

“ _Dorian..._ ” He begins, and his voice is low, rid of all the fire and the spite, dripping instead with guilt and apologies just at the very tip of his tongue. Dorian’s face flushes with rage, exhaustion. Sadness. Disappointment. “ _Please, listen to me..._ ”

“And then what? You can tell me the lies you _always_ tell me? The lies you tell yourself so you can sleep at night? That you would have done it for my own good, like everything else you’ve done to me? That you _love_ me?”

“ _Please, Dorian, you know that I love you--_ ”

“ _No, I do not!_ If you _loved_ me, father, you wouldn’t have _locked_ me like a _caged animal_. You wouldn’t have even _considered_ using blood magic, the _one_ thing you taught me to loathe the most. And now that I’m confronting you, you can’t even deny it!”

“ _Son,_ _listen_ \--”

“ _No_ , _you_ listen! I am _not_ your son, _remember?_ You told me that yourself. So do us both a favor, and _stop_ , just... just _stop_. Stop calling me. Stop lying to yourself. Just forget about me. You’ve dragged me out of your life, so you might as well take me out of your will, like you’ve always threatened to do. Like you’ve alway _wanted_. Because I’m _done_ , father. I don’t fucking care, I’m done, and if it’s up to me, you’re _never_ seeing me again.” Dorian stops, pauses to breathe, realizes there are tears streaking down his cheeks. On the other end of the line his father is painfully quiet, although he can hear his breathing, ragged and painful. Dorian feels _nothing_. “...I hope you’re happy now, father.” He finishes in a quiet voice, then takes the phone off his ear and hangs up, staring at the black screen for a few long minutes, numb as tears stream down his face, stuffs his nose, makes his mouth dry out.

When his phone remains silent, he turns it off, pushes the newspaper sheets off the bed and curls in around himself.

Dorian sleeps for fifteen hours, time which is spent fighting off countless demons who are attracted by his sorrow and attempt to take advantage of his weakened state. He wakes up feeling just as tired as he was before sleeping, but still he gets off the bed, showers, and starts house hunting.

He’s got a new life to build.

 

\---

 

Three months later Dorian feels like the new life he tried to build is in shambles.

Turns out the amount he had in his savings wasn’t all that much, or at least it isn’t when one has to pay for their own bills and do their own grocery shopping. The place he found wasn’t too small nor too big, and he pays a fair price in rent plus water and electricity bills, but everything else in his life is a mess. He has no idea how to cook even the most basic of meals, the Fereldan government is giving him a hard time in regards to his job permit, and consequently no one is open to hiring him while his papers aren’t arranged.

Well. Not like anyone seems to want to hire him one way or another.

Everything people say about prejudice against mages in Ferelden is right, if not _worse_. Dorian witnessed people getting some serious stink-eye when performing even the most inoffensive forms of magic out in public, and apparently his face structure and skin complexion out him as a Tevinter long before his accent betrays him, and if being a mage is bad being a _Tevinter_ mage is _worse_. He constantly hears murmurs behind his back wherever he goes, and the insults range from “slaver” to “aberration” and even “rich daddy’s boy”. It makes Dorian’s blood boil some days and his mood plummet in others, but he always refrains from reacting. It would do him no good to be arrested in a country where, legally, he’s still only staying as a tourist.

It’s certainly another one of _those_ weeks. He walked several miles the previous day trying to find a job, although more and more he realizes what a futile endeavour it is. He has no resume to speak of, because he spent his entire life studying instead of working, and although his diplomas and past experiences are fairly impressive they’re also about magic practice and theory, so they do him no good at all when applying for, say, a job at a coffee shop or even at a fast food restaurant.

The meeting he is having at the government's office is also, for lack of a better word, utterly _dreadful_. Dorian spent the previous week trying to remake all the necessary documents he needed that he didn’t think to take with him when he left home, and even though he now has everything they asked for in order, the office still refuses to continue with his citizenship request process. Not even a working permit he’s allowed to have, according to the sour looking man telling him he needs yet more documents.

“And _why_ was I not told that I needed all these extra documents the last time I was here? I could’ve got them already if only I was told!” The officer shrugs, leans further back in his chair and unpacks a piece of gum. Dorian’s eye twitches.

“Dunno. Don’t care. Listen, wouldn’t it just be _easier_ for you to go back to Tevinter, eh? You don’t fit here anyway.”

One deep breath, two, three. _Unclench your fists, Dorian._

“As I’ve told you previously, officer, I am seeking _asylum_ in Ferelden. I wasn’t exactly welcome with my family and had to leave rather hurriedly before things got worse for me.” _Have some sympathy_ , he thinks of saying, but decides not to. If there is anyone he doesn’t want pity from, _that_ particular man is at the top of his list.

The officer stares at Dorian in silence, chewing his gum, as if Dorian’s explanation and sole existence not only bores him but also annoys him deeply, like a fly that buzzes around that he can’t get rid of.

“Lots of refugees around these parts already. _War_ refugees, y’know? Not spoiled brats running away from daddy’s mansion. D’you really think we need more people? Ferelden’s booked up.”

“With all due respect, _officer_ ,” Dorian sneers lowly, trying his best to keep his voice level as his patience wears dangerously thin, “an entire country cannot be _booked up_ , especially when you have a giant poster in your reception with the sayings ‘Fereldan welcomes all refugees’. Or is there a fine print that says ‘asylum is exclusive for certain nationalities’, and no one told me about it?”

“Whoa, whoa, no need to get all pissy, pretty boy,” the officer says, leaning forward in his chair and frowning, finally looking something other than disinterested – although Dorian would’ve settled for anything other than _angry_. He must’ve raised his voice, and that was all the excuse the man wanted, the one thing he was waiting for; to get Dorian to look bad and lose any chances he probably has of being kept around. “If you’re just gonna _yell_ at me when you don’t get things to go your way, maybe I should just file your case and have someone escort you to the immigration office to be deported back, how’s that sound for ya?”

Dorian sees the security guard from the corner of his eye, shifting threateningly, as if ready to step forward any second now. _I am not welcome here,_ he thinks, swallowing thickly. He gathers his papers from the desk, putting them back in his folder, then gets up.

“My deepest and most sincerest apologies, officer. I meant no offence,” he says, a practiced speech that he long learned to use in fancy parties towards self-entitled magisters. He knows the comparison would only make the man fume, but it’s one Dorian can’t help but make to himself. “I see now that I have overstayed my welcome. If you would please provide me with the list of the documents I need I will be well on my way and out of your hair, and shall not bother you further for the day.”

The man glares, his face reddening as if he wants to argue, retort, but Dorian was nothing but polite. A logical person wouldn’t find anything wrong with his request and apologies.

Except that _this_ officer _can_.

“You think you’re so high and mighty, don’t you?” He snarls, and it almost makes Dorian jump back. “Talking down to me like I’m one of your house slaves, well, _fuck you!_ ”

“I- I don’t- I didn’t--” Dorian stammers, eyes wide, completely taken aback by the man’s overreaction. By the corner of his eye he sees the security guard standing straighter and taking a step forward, as if _daring_ him to retort. Dorian goes pale, and the officer behind his desk rises to his feet, his chair screeching loudly on the linoleum floor.

“ _Get out_ ,” he snarls, gesturing to the door,  “before I throw you out myself.”

Dorian wants to say something, apologize again maybe, but the words die on his throat. He turns and dashes out the door, steps hurried and clumsy, and once he’s out on the streets he makes his way to the bus stop, but just thinking of sitting idle and waiting for his ride home makes his heart speed up inside his chest. So he walks straight past it and makes his way home on foot.

 

\---

 

“ _No._ ”

Dorian is about ready to _scream_.

“No no no no no no _no!!!_ ”

So he does.

“ _Fuck!!!_ ”

He searches his pockets again, shakes the envelope in his hands, turns his doorknob. _Nothing_. His door is locked, and either he’s lost his keys, which means he’ll have to spend money he can’t spare to remake every single one of them, or he’s locked them inside his apartment when he left in a hurry in the morning to go to the office.

Either way he’s stuck outside, without his phone – he left it charging next to his bed before he left, since he thought he’d only take two hours, tops, to come and go.

It’s been six whole hours instead, and now he’s locked himself out with no way to call a locksmith whatsoever that doesn’t involve him roaming the streets after a restaurant that won’t only _not_ sneer at him, but will also somehow allow him to use their phone to call someone whose phone number he doesn’t even know. He doesn’t even have Felix to tell him what to do, to help him through it, to distract him from the Maker-awful day he’s been having.

It’s futile. Dorian groans – _whines_ , really – then slides down to the dirty hallway floor with his back against his door, hiding his head in his hand and mainly just trying really hard not to cry.

Ten minutes later Dorian’s failed spectacularly.

He’s got his hands fisted in his hair, head bent down between his legs, sobbing pitifully, when he hears a voice coming from above him.

“Hey, man, are you okay?”

Dorian looks up sharply, neck cricking painfully, gaping quite shamefully at the person staring down at him, looking mildly worried.

The man is not only a qunari, but the biggest qunari Dorian’s _ever_ seen. He’s probably about eight feet tall, _at least_ seven-foot-something, with horns that curl outwards instead of backwards or upwards like most qunari he’s seen. To top it off the man has several deep scars, two on his right cheek and one on his lip, not to mention the huge one the purple knit eyepatch on the left side of his face partially hides. But weirdest thing of all is the outfit: a loose purple shirt with matching pants, printed with tiny green dinosaurs, and a green long sleeved undershirt that covers his arms down to his wrists. It’s the complete opposite of what he’d expect a man like him would wear, and it leaves Dorian’s mind reeling, confused.

He realizes he’s still staring when the man lifts his single brow, and Dorian splutters, hurries to wipe his eye on the back of his hand, then ducks his head again when he notices he’s pretty much covered in snot. Great. Humiliation gets added up to his mental list of awful things that happened this week.

“‘s fine. I’m fine. Please go.”

Something nudges his arm, and when he sneaks a peek from between his arms he sees a floral embroidered handkerchief is being offered to him. He looks up, almost startled by the gesture, and immediately he notes that the man’s other hand, now holding on to his bag’s shoulder strap, is missing half of two fingers. _What on Thedas happened to this guy?,_ Dorian wonders, and the man’s lips curl up in a soft and kind smile.

“No offense, but you don’t look fine to me.” He says, gently waving the handkerchief in midair, and Dorian blushes, taking it and wiping his face and hands with it. He doesn’t blow his nose, but he does drops his legs, more grateful than he’d dare to admit out loud. “You’re the new neighbor, right? I guess our times don’t match up.”

“I believe not,” Dorian whispers, sighing. He gets to his feet a bit shakily, the man helping him up, and when standing Dorian finds he’s only at chest level with the man. _Maker._ “T-Thank you. I didn’t mean to bother,” he says, handing the handkerchief back, which the man carefully folds and shoves inside his pocket.

“Hey, you didn’t bother me at all. I just saw you there and figured you either needed a helping hand or you were a homeless dude who wandered into the building or something.”

“How did you know I was your newest neighbor, then?” Dorian asks, confused, and Bull shrugs.

“You don’t look homeless, for one. Also, I know the landlord. He told me the guy living across the hall was a handsome guy rocking an amazing mustache, just in case we bumped into each other.”

Dorian blushes, and for a second imagines the talk must’ve gone vastly different. _Watch out. A Tevinter is moving to your floor_ , or perhaps, _You okay with me renting the place next to yours to a Tevinter?_ , what with the man being qunari and all.

“Oh, well,” Dorian says instead of all the mildly-offensive things that run through his head, clearing his throat. “I’m flattered. Ah, of course, where are my manners. My name is Dorian Pavus; thank you again for the kindness, mister...?”

“I’m Ashkaari,” he says, shaking Dorian’s hand. His grip is firm and strong, and his palm is surprisingly soft, despite all the calluses and his thicker skin. Dorian holds back an unwelcome shiver, focusing on keeping his face at least _mostly_ neutral. “But my friends call me The Iron Bull, or just Bull for short.”

“ _Bull_ , then, if you don’t mind. I’m afraid I’d kill your language rather shamelessly if I tried pronunciating your name, and neither one of us would want that.”

Bull laughs, then adjusts the strap of his shoulder bag. “Oh, I don’t know. With some practice Qunlat in your voice would probably sound pretty damn nice, Dorian.”

The blush that rises to Dorian’s cheeks, replacing the one that had faded away soon after the previous compliment, has no business being there. He vaguely wonders if he’s being flirted with, but quickly he dismisses the idea as impossible. The man just found him sobbing, covered in snot and hair in disarray not five minutes ago. _Surely_ he’s not flirting with him. So Dorian forces a ahy chuckle and shakes his head.

“You flatter me. _Again_ ,” he says, then looks back at his door, frowning when he realizes he’s not any closer to actually entering his apartment. Maybe breaking the door down would be a way to do it, but then he’d have to spend money to replace its hinges, which could probably take a while.

As he’s wondering if the trouble would be worth it, he turns back around and finds that Bull is watching him, a neutral expression on his face. Almost as if waiting. “Well. Again, thank you for the kindness, but I probably should... ah.” _Go back to sulking_ , he thinks. “Let you get back to your own endeavours,” he says instead. “You’re probably a very busy man.”

That one single brow arches up again, and Bull frowns. “Ah, you locked yourself out, didn’t you?” He asks, and Dorian winces.

“Yes, well... quite.”

“And you have no way of calling anyone to help?”

“I may have left my phone in my nightstand this morning to charge. Didn’t think I’d be needing it this badly, to be honest.”

“Well, that’s settled, then,” Bull says, and for a second Dorian is puzzled, but then Bull turns around, opens his apartment door and steps aside the doorway. “Come on in, I have the landlord’s phone number, you can call him.”

“Oh, please, I wouldn’t want to impose on you--”

“Not imposing on anything, ‘Vint. I offered, remember?” He grins, and Dorian hesitates. The man’s home looks cozy from the doorway, and although it doesn’t bode well with him to just accept his help, the alternative would be going back to the hallway to wallow a bit more in self pity. Or going through with his plan of breaking the door down. Somehow he feels like the second wouldn't bode well with Bull.

“Alright,” he finally says, stepping past Bull, and he closes the door behind them both, setting his bag on the kitchen’s counter, along with Dorian’s envelope.

Dorian imagined the apartment would be a twin of his own, but he was wrong. The place is a front apartment, and apparently they’re much bigger than the back ones, and in a way it makes sense; a bigger place for a bigger man. Dorian’s kitchen and living room would fit quite comfortably in Bull’s kitchen. An already dialing cellphone is shoved in his hands, and Dorian promptly puts it to his ear after he verifies that the name on the screen is indeed the landlord’s.

Varric picks up with an exclamation of “ _Tiny!_ ” that throws Dorian for a loop. He hesitates for a few good seconds, but then he looks at Bull and it hits him.

“ _Tiny_. A fitting nickname, I’d say.”

“ _Wait-- Sparkler? Is that you? Holy shit, did you and Tiny--_ ”

“ _No!_ ” He jumps and all but screams into the speaker to stop Varric’s train of thought. Bull is, thankfully, still busy at the stove, doing Maker-knows-what. “ _No_ ,” he says again, lower. “ _nothing_ happened. Bull is just... _helping_ me.”

“ _Ohhhh_ , _I see._ Helping _you. Of course he is, Bull helps everyone, Sparkler_.”

Dorian can almost hear Varric’s wink on the other side of the line. He splutters, clutching the phone tightly to his face as he feels _yet another_ blush spreading to the top of his ears. He sneaks a peek back at Bull, who’s now _watching_ him, oh _Maker_.

“Stop badmouthing me, Varric!” Bull shouts, and Dorian does _not_ yelp, Maker no. “You’ll make the ‘Vint’s head explode!”

From the other side of the line Varric laughs. “ _Alright, alright, I’ll stop fucking with ya. What do you need, Sparkler?”_ Varric concedes, and Dorian sighs with relief before sinking heavily onto Bull’s couch.

“It’s my door, I. Well. I seem to have either locked myself out, or lost my keys. I was wondering if you could assist me.” Dorian whispers, relaxing a tad as his legs suddenly feel weak. Probably the day’s adrenaline finally catching up with him. Varric hums.

“ _Well, I have somewhere to be in a few minutes. Would you mind waiting a couple of hours? When I’m on my way home I’ll stop by and unlock the door for you, and if you’ve really lost your keys you can keep my spare to make a copy, how’s that sound?_ ”

“It sounds _perfect_ , actually,” Dorian sighs out, nodding to the receiver. “Thank you, Varric.”

“ _Don’t mention it. Here, pass me to Tiny, lemme talk to him_.”

“Of course,” he says, then gets up and takes the phone to Bull. “May I use your bathroom?” He asks as Bull takes the phone, and the man nods, pointing to the hallway next to the couch before putting the phone in between his shoulder and ear and going back to, apparently, washing the dishes.

In the bathroom, Dorian assesses the damage. His mustache and hair are a mess, his eyes are red and puffy, and his face looks absolutely disgusting. He blows his nose, uses the toilet, then thoroughly washes his hand and face, combing his hair back with his damp fingers. By the end of it, although he doesn’t look perfect as usual, he does look marginally better, which is a lot more than he could ask for. Satisfied for the moment, he nods at his reflection and leaves the bathroom, finding Bull in the kitchen, now fiddling with a hot tea kettle.

“I hope you like three cheese pizza,” he says, reaching up into the cupboards and fetching two cups. “I ordered my favorite, which is cheese with broccoli, bacon bits and garlic, but I know it’s not for everyone’s tastes, so I also ordered the three cheeses one. Can’t go wrong with loads of cheese, right?”

Dorian approaches the kitchen counter, slightly confused, watching as the man pours some sort of red tea into the cups, but as time passes and Dorian remains silent his face falls, bit by bit, turning into a worried frown. “Shit, you’re not lactose intolerant or something, are you? Knew I should’ve asked first. I can call them and see if I can have them make something else if you don’t like cheese.”

“No, it’s fine, I just... what do you mean?” Dorian asks, confused, and Bull pauses, as if trying to understand the question.

“Pizza. Varric said he’d take a couple of hours to get here, at least, right? So I ordered food for us. You _do_ like cheese, right?”

“I... yes, I do, but.” _You didn’t have to_ , Dorian almost says, but stops himself, thinking it’s probably rude to refuse. Also, he’s hungry, and he cannot for the life of him remember if he’s ever had delivery pizza before. His parents obviously never ordered one, as far as Dorian knows; they would’ve probably turned their noses up at the thought of having something so _quaint_ as that, called it “poor people food”, as if they’re too good for anything baked in brick and coal ovens and slathered with cheap mozzarella cheese. Dorian snorts with the mental image and shakes his head. “I _do_ like cheese, it’s just that you’ve surprised me, is all. I’ve never had Fereldan pizza.”

Bull looks shocked, at first, comically widening his single eye and almost dropping the dainty teacup he’s gently holding between his fingers. Then he looks excited, and finally settles on downright giddy. “Aw, _shit!_ ” He exclaims, jumping a bit on his seat before he seems to hold himself back and settles down with a sort of restless energy. “I’m sponsoring your _real_ pizza debut?”

Dorian laughs, smiling. “I guess you are. Never thought about it that way, to be honest. And whatever do you mean by ‘real pizza’?”

Bull scoffs, taking a sip of his tea before answering. Dorian eyes the bent pinkie on his right hand, and not for the first nor the last time he thinks, _this guy isn’t real._

“You’ll know when the pizza is here.”

And _oh_ , does Dorian _knows_.

When the pizza arrives they’re sitting at the stools by the kitchen island counter, chatting idly about the weather and the apartment complex and Varric. The smell hits Dorian first, strong and warm and delicious, and the sight does him second. He’s never seen anything so _scrumptious_ , so delightfully greasy in all the right ways, the cheese pulling and pulling and _pulling_ still when Bull lifts a piece off the box with a spatula.

“Usually I’d eat them with my hands,” he says as he serves Dorian a slice on a plate, “but they’re really hot, and that’s when they’re the _best_.”

Dorian cuts a piece, tries it, hyper-aware of Bull watching him as he does so, and feels pure _bliss_. He moans around his mouthful, eyes closed and everything, then looks at Bull like he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Which, considering the week he had, isn’t too far off from the truth.

“Bull, this is _amazing!_ ” He says, cutting a larger piece and stuffing it into his mouth as Bull whoops and laughs, digging into his own slice.

“ _Your face_ , Dorian!” Bull mumbles happily around a mouthful of his own. “You should've seen your face! Ah, I’m so happy to have been a part of this.”

 _So am I, only times a thousand_ , he thinks, swallowing.

He even tries the broccoli pizza at Bull’s behest, and finds that it also tastes amazing; the bacon is crispy, the veggies are seasoned beautifully, and the garlic is fresh and baked to perfection. _It’s a true pizza miracle_ , he thinks happily, helping himself to another slice.

After dinner, Bull invites Dorian to sit with him on the couch to finish their tea. Personally, Dorian is feeling more something like a whiskey, but the tea is fruity and earthy, and he enjoys it all the same.

“So, how’d you meet Varric?” Bull asks, and Dorian leans back, closing his eyes as he rests his head on the cushions. His belly is full, his nose is clear, the apartment is warm, and Bull is good company. His mood has improved considerably, no matter that his issues remain unresolved. After all, there’s nothing he can do about them at the moment. They’ll just have to wait.

“I was looking for a place to stay when I first came to Ferelden, three months ago,” he starts, remembering the awful state of the places he’d seen on his endeavor. “After the fifth place I went to, which wasn’t half bad, the state agent kindly explained that I wouldn’t be able to rent anything with no proper documents, and I couldn’t very well spend Maker-knows-how-long sleeping in motel rooms. So she slipped me Varric’s number.”

Bull hums and nods, as if he understands exactly what Dorian means. “He let you rent the place out of good faith, then.”

“Not quite,” Dorian laughs, taking a last sip of his tea and placing the cup on the coffee table. “I had to sign a document and give him an upfront deposit, but. He said he saw something in me, the day we met. I don’t know what that something was, and Varric still refuses to tell me, but it helped me get the apartment, and for that I’m grateful. I also promised to settle everything properly once my documents are arranged and I can officially get a job.”

At that, Bull’s brow lifts again, his mouth setting on a straight line. “Three months and you haven’t got your documents arranged yet? No offense, but what are you waiting for?”

“Ah, if only it were that easy,” Dorian chuckles sadly, rubbing his neck. The afternoon’s meeting comes back to him in all its glory, and for a second he feels his throat tighten, his eyes sting. “You see, I’m a mage, and to top it off, I’m from a Tevinter Altus family. Rich, influential, the whole deal. And that’s all the officers see when they see me, unfortunately, no matter how many times I tell them that that life is long behind me at this point.”

“They’re holding your documents from you on purpose?” Bull asks after a heartbeat, sounding mildly taken aback, and Dorian shrugs.

“Basically, yes. Can’t say I’m shocked, to be honest.”

“Well, shocked or not, they can’t do that to you! Isn’t that against the law?”

“Bull, they _are_ the law. What they say, sticks. You see, today just because I retorted the officer’s suggestion that I go back to my homeland in a tone that he found less than pleasant, he threatened to have me deported. And then when I apologized, he accused me of being _condescending_ , and nearly shoved me off the door in his rage.”

“ _Shit_.” Bull whispers, scratching his chin. It sounds a lot _less_ awful than it actually was, Dorian realizes, and he wonders if he’ll ever be able to convey in words the sheer panic he felt at that moment, before that man with a badge and so much control over him. For a second he thinks of his father and shudders. “That’s really shitty. And power abuse. That’s _not_ ok, Dorian.”

Dorian shrugs. He knows all of that already, but it’s not like he can do anything about it. “Do you have any suggestions? Because, frankly, I’m running out of options.”

“Yeah, actually, I do.” Dorian lifts a single brow, but Bull just finishes his tea and settles back against the couch. “I know a federal cop. Higher up, too. I’ll exchange some words with him, we’ll see what we can do.”

It takes Dorian by surprise. From all the things he expected Bull to say, him wanting to help with his situation was not one of them. Again, his automatic response is to refuse, but he’s been so _tired_ of it all. The corruption, the blatant disrespect, the threats, the _prejudice_. He needs help in that aspect, and he’ll take his wins where he can get them.

“Oh. Well. Thank you, I suppose. That’s... very generous of you.”

Bull shakes his head. “Don’t mention it, big guy. Just invite me over for some pizza once you get a job and we’ll call it even, how’s that sound?”

Dorian laughs, his cheeks flushing. He _is_ being flirted with, he realizes, and it makes him giddy. This person who is supposed to be more prejudiced towards him than most is _flirting_ with him instead! _Ferelden is just full of surprises_ , he thinks, smiling.

“It sounds _marvelous_ , Bull,” he says, allowing his voice to drop an octave lower, looking at the man from under his lashes. Going for charming and maybe even a bit bashful. It does the trick, Bull grinning and his eye darkening, even if just a little. It makes Dorian’s heart race, thrilling. “Again, I cannot thank you enough. You’re too kind.”

Just then the doorbell rings, and Bull looks apologetic as he gets up and off the couch to answer the door. There, stands Varric, and both men greet each other like they’re old friends. Dorian makes his way to them, and quickly Varric whips out a bunch of keys, one of which is used to open his apartment door.

“There they are,” Dorian breathes out as he spots his keys, right atop the kitchen counter. “Thank you, Varric.”

“Hey, just keep paying rent on time and we’re friends, alright?” Varric chuckles, waving to both Bull and Dorian as he makes his way down the stairs. Bull leans against Dorian’s doorframe, still wearing his weird dinosaur pajamas, and crosses his arms, which makes the slightly loose outfit look wonderfully tight. Dorian gulps dryly and quickly looks back up at the man’s single eye, but not without getting a grin that speaks of promises unspoken between them.

“Well... goodnight, Bull,” he says, nodding once as he holds the doorknob, and Bull nods back, smile broadening, stepping back and towards his own apartment.

“G’night, neighbor.”

 

\---

 

The next day, after staying hours upon hours awake gossiping with Felix on his phone, Dorian planned on sleeping in because, by Andraste’s pyre, _he rightfully earned it_ after the day he had. And of course, Dorian wakes up to the loud and shrilly ringing of his doorbell at Maker-knows-what-hour in the morning.

 _Too blightful early_ , that’s the hour it is. Any hour that isn’t at least early afternoon is too early for Dorian in a sacred day like this.

He gets out of bed groggily after the second ring, splashes his face and quickly arranges his hair in the mirror, cursing whoever decided to stop by unannounced, ruining his plans. But a peek through the peephole reveals that he did good getting up when he did: there are two men talking on the other side of his door; one probably as tall as he is, with blond and graying curly locks, and next to him none other than Dorian’s massive qunari neighbor, Bull.

Suddenly he feels very awake, and quickly he unlocks the door, opening it wide. Bull immediately perks up and the blonde man smiles politely, back straightening as if reporting to duty.

“Dorian!” Bull exclaims. “Good morning! I hope we didn’t wake you or anything!”

 _Yes you very much did_ , Dorian thinks, but there are two _very_ handsome men on his doorstep, one of them _in full uniform_ , the other wearing a set of pajamas not unlike the ones he wore yesterday and still managing to look drop dead gorgeous, so he’d like to not appear as sour as he usually is when he’s woken up instead of rising at his own terms. “No, no, not at all, I was just getting ready to get out of bed,” he lies, smiling softly to hide his exhaustion. “Good morning, Bull. And who might this handsome fellow be?”

Bull laughs, but the blond man just smiles shyly, his cheeks turning slightly pink. _How endearing_ , Dorian thinks as Bull claps the man heavily on the back, making him wobble on his feet. “This is the guy I told you about yesterday! Cullen, meet Dorian. Dorian, this is Cullen Rutherford. He’s a federal officer, but he works somewhere else in the city office, which is probably why you two haven’t bumped into each other.”

“And I’m most likely the superior officer of the man that threatened to have you deported,” Cullen says, recovering quickly. His voice is smooth as velvet, and he reaches forward to shake Dorian’s hand, firm grip as iron. Dorian tries his damndest not to wince.

“Thank you, officer Rutherford. I’m glad to know I have a few people on my side, at least,” Dorian says, smiling softly, and Cullen shakes his head.

“Please, call me Cullen. What do you say the three of us go out for breakfast, and you and I go to the office to settle the matter of your documents?”

Dorian quickly agrees, inviting both men in to sit while he changes into one of his more simple outfits, brushes his teeth and quickly arranges his hair and mustache – he’d usually take a lot longer than five minutes to do it, but he figures it’s bad manners to leave the two men waiting for too long. Ten minutes later they’re out on the street, Dorian clutching his documents on one hand while Bull and Cullen tell him about some of the best places to eat in Ferelden.

“And _this_ is the where you’ll find the _best_ traditional breakfast,” Cullen says, smiling widely as he pushes open the door of a small, apparently family-owned diner. The waitress, a young dwarf teenage girl, immediately perks up as she sees the group, and they settle on a corner booth as she finishes taking the orders of the table she’s seeing.

“Good morning, officer! Gentlemen,” She beams at them, arranging the papers and pen on her hand. Dorian notices the light blush on her cheeks and smiles. “Haven’t seen you lot around here in a while!”

“Sorry, I’ve been quite busy lately,” Cullen says, and when his eyes meet Dorian’s he nods. “Lori, you know Bull, of course, but my friend Dorian here is new in town and I figured I should bring him to get a real taste of Ferelden by having the best breakfast around.”

The girl giggles, her blush deepening. “Oh, thank you, officer, you flatter us. Just the usual for the two of you then?”

“Yes, and make sure to bring the complete breakfast for Dorian as well.”

“Coming right up!” She chirps, and Dorian turns to Cullen, a perfectly manicured brow lifting.

“Well, _officer_ , it seems you have an admirer!” He sing-songs, teasing, and Cullen rubs his neck, laughing nervously.

“She’s the owner’s daughter. A sweet thing, but much too young. She’ll get over it, I’m sure.”

“It’s been _five years_ , Cullen,” Bull says pointedly, and Cullen sighs. “I’m pretty sure she’s not getting over it anytime soon.”

“Ah, well. One can hope, I guess,” he shrugs, fiddling with the napkin on the table. Dorian grins. The man sure is charming; even with his wrinkles and white strands of hair silvering his locks, he’s aged like a fine wine, and seems charming in his own way and very polite to boot. He can see how one would harbor a crush for so long.

“By the way, Cullen, you never did explain it to me... isn’t the owner of this joint originally from Orzammar?” Bull asks, and _that_ has Dorian interested.

“The dwarven capital?” He asks, and Cullen nods, sighing out with apparent relief from the change of subject.

“Oghren Kondrat is a piece of work, but he’s alright. His wife Felsi is the true mastermind of this operation. They came to Ferelden twenty years ago, opened shop about five years in, and I honestly don’t know how they learned Ferelden cuisine so well. They’ve won best typical Fereldan restaurant five times already. It makes some of the locals _very_ mad, let me tell you.” Cullen says, making them both laugh.

Breakfast comes quickly, and although it’s nothing like Dorian expected – _who serves beans and tomato for breakfast? That’s lunch food!_ – he finds it all very pleasant. Bull eats two whole plates instead of one, but goes slowly, even going so far as to tuck one of the paper napkins at the front of his yellow-with-orange-flowers shirt and carefully fold up the sleeves of his orange undershirt, revealing heavily tattooed wrists. _Well_. Dorian thinks of asking again about what’s the story behind his pajama-like uniforms, but decides not to. Later. He’s sure he’ll have the opportunity, eventually.

The talk, at the end of breakfast, however, is less than pleasant. Cullen asks exactly what happened at the office and Dorian sighs, explaining how he was forced to hurriedly leave his family house and country for personal reasons, fearing how his overbearing and manipulative parents might react if they knew of his hasty escape, and how ever since he arrived in Ferelden his welcome hasn’t been exactly _warm_. Cullen frowns as Dorian relays the story of the previous day, how he was literally chased out of the Federal building by an officer trying to convince him to go back to Tevinter by threatening him, and Cullen shakes his head.

“I hope you don’t mind that I look for evidence of what you claim, Dorian. It’s not that I don’t believe you,” he quickly adds, looking genuinely distressed, “but the more I have against that bastard, the better. I think I know who that man might be. _Officer Karras_. He’s deported multiple mages back to their homelands for odd reasons the past few years, and although I hoped that he wasn’t doing so for petty reasons, I’ve _suspected_ something was fishy. He’s very well loved amongst the other employees of the office, so calling him out on it didn’t do any good. I’ve been trying to get him with his fingers dirty for quite a while now.” He looks up, then, pinching his lips together, looking determined. Next to him, Bull nods solemnly, looking oddly grim. “Maybe with your help, this could be it, the moment I’ve been waiting for.”

“I truly hope so, Cullen,” Dorian breathes out, relieved. “I’ll be more than happy to help.”

Once outside, Bull waves his goodbye, taking the subway to downtown, and Dorian and Cullen walk to the Ferelden’s Federal Office of Justice, and _oh_ , it almost makes Dorian want to kiss the men, with how quickly he gets in character. As soon as they’re in through the doors Cullen’s face closes off, putting him literal miles away from that shy and awkward man at the diner, and the employees that catch a glance of him immediately go tense and stand up straight, making way as if they’re afraid the man will physically punish them if they don’t. He ignores them completely, marching directly to what seems to be the security office, and the man and women inside rise to their feet just as Cullen opens the door, laughter dying and conversation stopping, as if they’re soldiers and Cullen is their commander.

“I want to review the security tapes from yesterday,” he says as a way of greeting, and the guards look at each other from the corner of their eyes.

“Which room, sir?” One of them asks, the one standing behind the camera's controls, and Cullen looks at Dorian, who coughs awkwardly behind his hand.

“Room four, at around three o’clock,” Dorian says, and Cullen looks back at the man who’d asked and glares, just slightly, as if wondering why he hasn’t moved yet. The force of his expression alone is enough to get him to nod back and sit down in his chair, typing away at his keyboard.

Quickly, the image on one of the screens goes black, then changes to show the man Dorian recognizes from yesterday. He seems to be looking at some documents in his hand and talking loudly with the security Dorian remembers standing at the corner of the room. Cullen squints, and nudges the man on the chair.

“Turn the volume up.”

“Yessir,” he replies, and does so.

“...piece of crap! Who does he think he is, filthy rich mama’s boy, coming to _our_ lands, corrupting _our_ people with his _disgusting_ magic?! _Demanding_ we take him in!” Comes the audio from the speakers, and Dorian flinches. On the video, the security officer laughs and agrees. The man behind the desk – officer Karras, apparently – shakes the papers, tosses them away from him, then sighs out, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he’s exhausted. “How long he’s been out there, again?”

“Nearly five hours now, sir,” The security guard says, and the man shakes his head.

“And he _still_ hasn’t left?” Karras asks, sounding outraged, and Dorian widens his eyes. He can see the guards around him looking at him sideways, already realizing the officer is talking about _him_ , and it makes his face flush with anger, with humiliation. _They left him waiting outside for hours **on purpose**._

“ _Fine!_ Fine. Call him in. I’ll see if I can get him to go back to that dump hole he came from once and for all.” The guard nods, walks to the door, and _there_ , Dorian remembers clear as day, the man with the menacing frown calling out his name, telling him to follow him, the excitement and the relief he felt at that moment for finally being called. And he clearly remembers the meeting, although watching it from above and hearing it as if it were happening to someone else is an odd outer-body experience. His voice begins calm, collected, and he remembers feeling his stomach bottom out, the disappointment, the nervousness at the officer’s words, and when he snaps it sounds shrilly, desperate. He doesn’t sound angry, like he thought he did; instead, it’s almost like he’s begging the officer to see the _truth_.

Dorian knows what happens next without having to see it. Karras fakes outrage, threatens him, the guard at the corner shifts and Dorian sneaks a glance towards him. In the video Dorian looks stiff, _scared_ , and for a few seconds he takes measured breaths, then gets up from the chair and starts gathering his documents. The sudden change in his tone as he apologizes is clear, and now he sees what he hadn’t seen yesterday: Karras looks taken aback, almost surprised, when Dorian apologizes, but quickly schools his expression back to anger. Dorian stammers, confused, and he rises from his chair as the guard steps up. In a heartbeat Dorian’s fleeing the room, bolting through the door as he clutches the documents under his arm.

For Dorian, that’s the last of it. The guard before the computer makes to stop the video footage, but Cullen puts a hand on his shoulder, whispers “ _Wait_ ,” and it’s as if everyone in the room is holding their collective breath.

On the screen, the guard closes the door, and Karras collapses back in his chair.

 _Laughing_.

“ _Did you see that?_ That _sissy_ , look how _fast_ he runs! _Ha!_ ” The man hollers, throwing his head back, the guard chuckling along. Dorian feels the familiar tears of rage on the corner of his eyes, feels his throat tighten, the tip of his fingers and the palm of his hands warming up involuntarily, but he holds it all back. No good will come out of losing control here, no matter how entitled to be offended, to be _enraged_ he might be. “ _That_ will teach him! Hey, give the other guards his description, and let everyone know that the next time this _prick_ shows up here, you’re all allowed to arrest him, under _my_ orders.”

“Yes, sir,” the man says, walking out the door, and finally, _finally_ , the video stops.

It feels like there’s a physical weight in the room. The silence feels heavy, no one even daring to breathe, to shift, as to not break it. The guards are all looking at Cullen, waiting, but he’s still staring at the screen, frozen on the man’s smug smile, with an intense look in his eyes, muscles tight and tensed up. Dorian dares to be the first to say something, and places a hand on his shoulder.

“Rutherford?” He asks, and Cullen finally tears his eyes away, sighing out, relaxing bit by bit, although not completely. He shakes his head, and for a long while says nothing.

“Were you given instructions to arrest this citizen next to me?” He finally asks to the room at large, his voice loud and thunderous, and as one, they either nod or whisper “yes, sir,” as if shy and ashamed of their orders. Cullen huffs out, clearly nervous, then looks back at the man on the chair. “Change it back to the current footage. Show me if Karras is in his office.”

 _And indeed he is_ , Dorian thinks as the screen flickers back to movement, the man behind the desk interviewing a frail looking old lady, looking utterly disinterested. Cullen huffs and marches out the room without another word. Dorian and the guards all look at each other, and as if in a spoken word, all of them follow Cullen like obedient yet clumsy ducklings.

Once at the reception, Cullen’s following have gathered about ten more curious people, all shushing each other in fear that the man will send them away if they realize he’s being followed – which Dorian _knows_ he knows. Somehow, it’s like he’s so mad he barely even _cares_ , and behind him, the guards, secretaries, even cleaning ladies, look giddy and excited, some look curious, others confused, but they all keep following him and Cullen.

Before door four, Cullen knocks. Muffled voices are heard, then steps, and finally the door opens. For a second Karras can only see Cullen and his following of employees behind him, but then he notes Dorian, and it all fits together in his head in a fraction of a second. He first looks surprised, then scared, then _mad_ , and that’s what he sticks with.

“Chief-officer!” Karras exclaims, pointing at Dorian. “This man--”

“ _Save it_ , Karras. You _do_ know we have security cameras, right?” Cullen asks, tone clipped and dry, and the entire room, civilians waiting for their documents included, falls silent. “ _With audio_. Mister Dorian Pavus here happens to be a friend of a _very_ good friend of mine, and asked me to help him with his citizenship, and can you imagine my _shock_ when he tells me that one of my own men has _threatened_ and _ridiculed_ him? While he was asking for _refuge_ from his home land?” The man opens his mouth to retort, but Cullen continues. “Or _is there a fine print that no one told me about_ after all?”

Karras stops, whatever he was going to say dying at his throat, his glare permanent in his eyes, but Cullen’s is just as unwavering. Dorian bites his lip, working hard not to burst into giggles as he sees beads of sweat appearing on officer Karras’ temple. It’s _amazing_ , and easily one of the most satisfying feelings in the world.

“Come with me to my office, Karras,” Cullen says finally, and the man grunts but turns and walks down another hallway. Cullen makes to follow him, but at the last moment turns around, pointing at the other employees. “And you all! Go back to work!” He shouts, and the reception becomes a flurry of dazed people, trying to look busy or hurry back to their work stations. Dorian finally, _finally_ gives in, and laughs softly behind his hand. “You there, officer, go see to that lady Karras was talking to. Come on, Dorian, you come with me.”

“It’ll be my pleasure, chief-officer,” he says, bowing with a flourish, and Cullen snorts, shaking his head as he walks away.

 

\---

 

“And then! And then he calls some people on this _apparatus_ he has on his desk, and they take the man away! _In cuffs!_ ” Dorian exclaims excitedly, banging his fist on the table, and the people around him laugh while Cullen, next to him, blushes like a virgin maiden.

“Well, it wasn’t _exactly_ like that,” Cullen starts, but the elf with choppy blonde hair on the other side of Dorian – Sera, he remembers someone saying – interrupts him and jabs a finger in his direction.

“You sayin’ he _wasn’t_ taken in cuffs?” She asks, but Cullen shrugs, sipping his beer.

“Okay, _that_ part is accurate,” he mumbles against the rim of his mug, making the girl holler with laughter and getting Dorian to join her. Finally Cullen relents, putting his mug down and smiling along. “Oh, who am I kidding, it was _so_ satisfying! I feel _great!_ ”

After the movie-worthy scene at the Federal office, Dorian sat down next to officer Karras on the other side of Cullen’s desk as Cullen pretty much _interrogated_ the man, who seemed torn between looking outraged and embarrassed. In the end, Cullen got him to confess his blatant prejudice against mages, and he called two guards to take him away for abuse of power.

Honestly, Dorian felt so giddy he might have waved his fingers at Karras as he was taken away. _Maybe._

“His trial is going to be hard, but it’ll be worth it,” Cullen says, placing a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “And your documents are all arranged, should have them ready in about a week.”

Dorian smiles, genuinely smiles with pure, unbidden joy for the first time in _months_ , his cheeks flushing with the drink and hurting with the constant pull of the muscles there. Bull, who organized the night out at the bar, suggests a toast, yelling _in the name of justice and hot officers!_ , and they all cheer and raise their glasses, clinking them together as one as Cullen splutters and nearly chokes on his drink. On the table is Varric, the landlord, who Dorian finds knows nearly everyone everywhere, Sera, the elf girl with a razor tongue, Dagna, Sera’s excited and bubbly girlfriend, Evelyn, Cullen’s wife, and Cremisius, a good friend of Bull’s and also a Tevinter who had to seek asylum in Ferelden many years ago.

“For what it’s worth, Fereldens don’t look down _just_ on mages,” he tells Dorian when they go to the bar to fetch more drinks. “They hear _Tevinter_ , they all automatically think _blood magic_ , no matter if you’re Altus or Soporati. You just got lucky to be extra Altus looking and also a mage to boot.” Dorian laughs, then shakes his head.

“ _Lucky_ is a word for it, certainly,” he says, grinning, “just perhaps not the _best_ word.” Krem nods and pats him roughly on the back, and Dorian has to steady himself to not drop the bottle he’s holding.

“Good luck, Altus. You seem pampered, but it takes courage to escape that snake den.”

Dorian smiles again, but it’s a bit sadder, a bit softer. Krem, however, doesn't notice; he just takes his half a dozen pints to the table much to everyone’s delight, unaware that the remark has the Altus sobering up a little. Dorian makes his way to the terrace instead of rejoining them, shivering with the cold Fereldan evening but appreciating the freshness of the air against his face.

He leans over the railings, the sounds and music of the bar muffled by the doors, and watches the city, sees the lights blinking from buildings and houses alike. It all feels and looks so much different than Tevinter did, and in a way, it’s not bad. It’s good.

But at the same time, it’s not _home_.

A few long minutes later, the door behind him opens, and although he doesn’t turn around to greet whoever’s joined him he finds he doesn’t have to when a huge, bulky mass of a man stands right beside him, leaning over the railing and looking down at the city in a perfect copy of Dorian.

“Pretty nice, right?” Bull asks, closing his one eye and breathing deep. What exactly _is_ nice Bull doesn’t say, but it sounds like a rhetorical question. Like it can be whatever Dorian needs it to be.

“Yes, it is,” Dorian replies, but even to his own ears it sounds heartbreakingly sad. Bull glances sideways at him, lifting his brow, and nudges Dorian lightly with his elbow.

“What’s on your mind?” Bull asks, and Dorian knows he could say he’s just tired, just reminiscing, _remembering_ , and he’d let it go, and perhaps it's because of that that he feels compelled to say it anyway.

“I miss Tevinter,” he replies in all his honesty, sighing out. “I know we have our faults, with our culture, our history, our people, but... still. I miss it. It’s like a part of me is gone, because a part of me will always be there, you know? As if... as if the two countries are _lovers_ of mine,” he blurts out, hoping the metaphor he’s just thought up makes any sense. “I like Ferelden, and I’m _committed_ to it, now more than ever, but I feel like my heart will always be Tevinter’s.” He looks at Bull, brows drawn up. “Have you ever felt like that before, Bull?” He asks, but Bull isn’t looking so cheery anymore, nor is he looking at Dorian. It’s like his words touched him, somehow.

“Yeah,” he says finally, sipping at his beer. “I’m from Par Vollen, originally, and it’s true, big guy. The place where you grew up in, the place that made you... it never really leaves you. Been going between Ferelden and Orlais for about five years now, and I can tell you that much.”

Dorian draws in a breath, feeling his chest tighten.

“You’re Qunari, then.” He whispers, but Bull shakes his head, scrunches his face up.

“ _Was_. Tal-Vashoth now. S’why I never went back. I _can’t_.”

Dorian looks down at his hands, hanging at the railing, and doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry,” he finally settles on when the silence becomes too much to bear, but Bull just shakes his head.

“Nah. Despite everything, I don’t regret it, y’know? I met so many wonderful people, I _changed_ so much, and for the better. There? There I was just another one of their soldiers, ready to die for the demands of the Qun.” He _tsks_ , gulps down the rest of his beer, then looks down at the empty bottle, thinking. “I’m happy now, more than I ever was there. It was worth it.”

“Still.” Dorian approaches him, places his fingers, gently, over his forearm. Bull looks up, and he looks so _tired_ , Dorian almost gives in to a brief impulse he suddenly has to hug him, drive the grief away. “It must’ve been hard. Still must be. And I’m sorry.”

Bull smiles then, a small thing, the gentlest upturn of his lips, then chuckles, shaking his head as he looks back towards the city. _You and I aren’t so different from each other_ , Dorian thinks, but doesn't say it. By the scars he can see littering the man’s arms and shoulders, now bare in a tanktop and partially hidden by vitaar-styled tattoos, Dorian reckons he must’ve served in the neverending Seheron war. It feels like belittling what Bull went through to compare their griefs.

Finally, Bull shakes his head again, harder this time, almost as if snapping out of the headspace he was in, then offers a small smile to Dorian. “Thanks,” he says, clasping Dorian on the shoulder. “Let’s go back before you freeze, Vint.”

“Fair enough,” Dorian nods, allowing Bull to guide him back inside, and although the loud noises feel like an assault to his ears he reckons it’s rather nice to be warm again.

Later, when he and Bull get to their building, he enters his apartment and decides to open his laptop before heading to bed, just to update his resume.

 _Ferelden citizen_ , he writes down at the top, beaming at the screen _._

He goes to bed, texts Felix, and an hour later, when he’s finally turned his phone off, he’s feeling light, a new hope blooming in his chest.

It’ll be okay.

 

\---

 

Two weeks later everything is _not_ okay.

Dorian steeped to a new low when he applied to a burger shop as a dishwasher, but not even _that_ saved him from the fierce stink-eye he got from the manager that interviewed him. He can’t even get cashier jobs because he’ll be dealing with public, and although the excuses are various – “We said we needed someone with no experience, but, you know, that wasn’t actually _true,_ ” “I don’t like your _attitude_ very much,” and Dorian’s favorite so far, “You look too... _intimidating!_ ” – he knows they all say pretty much the same:

_We don’t want a ‘Vint working with us._

Dorian considers talking to Cremisius, Bull’s friend that he met at the bar, but despite their brief bonding moment Dorian still feels like he doesn’t quite have the liberty to approach him like that, without prompt, especially considering their class difference. Sure, in Ferelden he’s not Altus nor is Cremisius a Soporati, but still he feels like the man might not appreciate helping someone like _him_. Pompous, rich since birth, a spoiled stuck-up brat. He’s heard all that and _worse_ while job hunting, and although at first he knew them to not be true, and to not let them get to him, right now they cut deep, exhaustion giving way to hurt, and ultimately he doesn’t want to risk listening to the same words and judgements from a fellow countryman, the one thing that should feel comforting and familiar in a land of strangers.

Dorian comes back home earlier, dragging his feet, hungry because he didn’t want to risk another waiter attempting to adulterate his food and then having their boss stand up for them when he calls for the manager. _It just isn’t worth it_ , he thinks, struggling with his keys as he opens the door, then shoving it closed with his foot.

But once in his apartment he opens his small fridge and remembers _he doesn’t have any  real food_ , just a few condiments and juice, the trip to the supermarket delayed again and again and again as he remembers exactly how much money he’s got left – _exactly three months worth of rent, slowly becoming two._ He wonders if ordering food would be worth it, but he doesn’t know _what_ to order or from _where_. For a second he thinks about the wonderful pizza he had at Bull’s when he locked himself out, but he doesn’t know the name of the place, much less their phone number, and he doesn’t feel like bothering Bull, who he doubts might even be home. So he closes the fridge with a resigned sigh and flops down on his too-small couch, covering his eyes with his forearms and hoping that sleep catches up with him quickly enough.

And it does, allowing Dorian a peaceful sleep for a couple of hours, until his doorbell rings.

For a second he considers not opening the door and pretending to still be asleep – if it’s Varric he can damn well text him or come back later – but he thinks it’d be rude of him to do so. He needs any support he can get at the moment, and he won’t be getting any by ignoring the few barely-friends he currently has. So he gets up and peeks through the peephole to see who it is.

He only catches a glimpse of grey biceps – _grey, tattooed biceps in a tank-top_ – which can only belong to Bull.

“Hey, neighbor!” Bull exclaims once the door is open. Dorian raises a brow and tries to hide how sleepy he is by raising a single brow and focusing exclusively on Bull’s face. If he looks down he fears he might not be able to look back up again. He’s a weak man when he’s groggy with sleep. “I haven’t seen you in a while! How’s the job hunt?”

“Quite dreadful, to be honest,” Dorian says, sighing. “And how are you doing, Bull? Everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m great! Hey, listen, I was just to order some Rivain takeout, d’you wanna join me?”

Almost as if on cue, Dorian’s stomach rumbles loud enough to echo in the empty hallway, and he blushes as Bull laughs. “I couldn’t possibly,” Dorian retorts, waving his head. “I haven’t even repaid you for the pizza, Bull.”

“Hey, none of that. I like free pizza as much as the next guy, but our agreement was to repay me only _after_ you got a job.” The qunari jerks his head back towards his apartment door, his horns swooshing dangerously through the air. “Come on, I got more food than I can eat and a videogame begging to be played on cooperative.”

Dorian raises a single brow, then leans against his doorframe. “How can you have more food than you can eat if you haven’t even ordered yet?”

Bull grins shyly, then shrugs, faking nonchalance. _Caught him_ , Dorian thinks, smiling softly. “You know how it is. A big, brutish man like me can get their numbers confused every once in awhile. One fish cake becomes three, a small portion becomes a large. You know how it is, right?”

“I do not, actually,” Dorian chuckles, but steps out anyway, taking his keys and phone and closing the door behind him. “But perhaps you can show me.”

In Bull’s apartment, Dorian fiddles with the character sitting idle on Bull’s TV as he orders on the phone. When asked what he wants, Dorian says “surprise me,” adding that he has no qualms with strong spices; encourages it even. That makes Bull smile widely, and Dorian hopes he takes it as a challenge.

Thirty minutes later, Dorian is ready to throw his controller to the TV screen, hoping and praying the motion will break the glass to a million pieces, maybe even set the shards on fire to amplify his level of satisfaction. The doorbell rings, though, tempering Dorian’s near-tantrum, and not two minutes later Bull brings boxes upon boxes of food inside, setting them to the small kitchen table.

And _oh_ , the smell is _heavenly_.

“Dig in,” Bull says, opening up a few boxes to peer at their contents, then finally sticking a fork inside one and bringing what seems like crazy-spicy red noodles to his lips. He hums happily as he chews, and Dorian looks down upon the table, thinking to himself that the last time he’s seen this much food in one meal was back home in Minrathous. Especially food that smells this amazing.

He opens the remaining boxes, peering inside curiously: in one he sees what looks like tiny round fried fish cakes, and in another he sees a pie that seems to be a dessert of some sort with a citrus fragrance he cannot identify. On the last box he finds the same reddish pasta Bull’s eating, and he decides to follow his lead and have that as well, taking the fork from the table and eating a small mouthful.

Immediately the heat hits his tongue, searing hot though the food itself is only above lukewarm, and he widens his eye in surprise, tears pricking the corner of his eyes.

“ _Bull_ ,” he moans, and from the way Bull’s grey cheeks go slightly purple-ish, he figures he should refrain from making much lewder noises, even if it seems to be a recurring incident when there’s good food and Bull involved. He gulps and gasps, smiling as his lips begin to tingle. “Bull, dear Maker, this is _amazing_.”

“These spices are hard to find anywhere else,” Bull says through a mouthful, covering his lips with his hand. “Dunno how they smuggle it in, but hey, as long as it means more delicious food for us northerners I’m not complaining.” Dorian laughs as he gulps down water, then excitedly scoops some more pasta off his cardboard box, not even waiting for the heat to subside.

Ten minutes later and with both their pasta gone, they share the box of fried fish cakes, dipping them in a cinnamon sauce unlike anything Dorian’s ever had. They’re almost as spicy, a hint of ginger and cardamom on the crunchy exterior making Dorian happier than he’s been in months.

“So,” Bull says after he’s finished his third cake ladled with sauce, licking the tip of his fingers. “Dorian. What kind of job are you looking for?”

“Anything,” he replies in earnest, nipping at the fried batter, and Bull lifts his brow in question. He just shrugs. “Truth be told, with the exception of an internship I had once, I have never worked a day in my life, and all my degrees are regarding magic in one way or another.”

“Ouch,” Bull whispers, and Dorian chuckles.

“Ouch indeed.”

“Why Ferelden, then? Why not Rivaini, or Orlais? They’re not exactly like Ferelden when it comes to magic.”

Dorian stabs another fish cake, and then stares at it, almost as if contemplating life.“Orlais and its Game aren't exactly welcoming. They despise Tevinters more than any other nationality, and I feared for both my safety and my sanity if I went there instead. And Rivaini was… too close. Not an option, for someone who didn’t want to be followed. Not to mention I never heard much good things about outsiders in a land where the Qun is preached so ferociously.” He looks up as he chews on the cake, almost belatedly realizing the awful implications his words might’ve had. Bull is staring at him with the faintest upturn of his lips, almost as if amused by Dorian’s distress. “Oh, I, ah. No offense, I mean--”

“None taken,” Bull says quickly, waving a massive hand in the air. “The Qun can be intimidating. Even for us who were born in it. _Especially_ for us.”

At that, Dorian pauses, and considers the man before him. Bull seems relaxed, at ease with the conversation, but if he looks closer it’s there, the tension in his shoulders, the slight crease in his brow. Dorian feels like he wants to know more, for some reason, discover more about this handsome, massive, _outlandish_ man that he just happens to share a hallway with, but he doesn’t want to pry either. Some things are better left unsaid, some tombs better left undisturbed. So he tries to change the subject.

“What’s with the colorful pajamas you wear to work, by the way?” He asks, the diversion attempt fairly obvious, and maybe for someone not paying attention the way Bull leans back and flexes his shoulders would be no big deal, but Dorian sees it for what it is. When he drops them, the tension is gone. He’s relieved to change topics.

“They’re my uniform,” He says, and when Dorian cocks a brow at him, he smiles easily. “I’m a nurse at a children’s hospital.”

“You. _A nurse_.” Dorian says flatly, and Bull chuckles.

“People always have that reaction. _Whaaat_ , the scarred, one-eyed, heavily tattooed qunari? Working with _children_? _In a hospital_? But hey, what can I say. I like children, and I like helping people.”

“So you do,” Dorian smiles, then reaches for one of the tarts. “Impressive tattoos, by the way. No wonder you wear long sleeves to work. Must’ve taken a lot to get them done.”

“Thanks, big guy. And yeah, they hurt like a bitch and took a really long time to finish them, to get them just right. But it was worth it.”

Dorian looks up from under his lashes as he sinks a spoon onto the creamy sweet. Probably meaningful then. Maybe the patterns are symbols? Words? Perhaps something traditional to the Qun? Dorian thinks of his own bare arm, and remembers the itch he suddenly had after a month in Ferelden, to have his family’s crest tattooed, its snake twisting around his skin. Like a memento to where he belongs but can never return to. Of course, he could never do it; not only the tattoo would cost a lot more than what he could afford, no one would hire a man with an armful of a traditional Tevinter snake. It would be career suicide. Dorian thinks all this, then wonders how Bull managed to find an artist that did the pattern so perfectly, in a way that makes Bull obviously proud to wear them.

When he brings the nearly forgotten spoonful of sweet to his mouth, he recognizes orange, passion fruit, and a third fruit with a sharp, tangy flavor, and he takes a second mouthful before he realizes he hasn’t said anything for over three minutes, too concentrated on both the pie and Bull’s arms and shoulders tattoos.

“Tangerines.” Bull whispers, biting onto his own tart. Dorian startles, blushing a light pink. “You’re thinking of tangerines.”

“Well, if that’s the case, then tangerines might be my new favorite citrus fruit.” Bull chuckles, then licks the pad of his fingers, covered in the cream. Of course the man would eat with his hands. _Of course_. Dorian coughs behind a fist, sipping on his glass of water and concentrating back on his own tart. “I do hope you’ll give me the name of the restaurant and the food you ordered. I might get some for myself, eventually.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bull nods, wiping his hand on a napkin. “When I order again I’ll make sure to ask for an extra pamphlet.”

“That's very kind of you,” Dorian smiles, then rises to his feet to dispose of the empty boxes, followed close behind by Bull.

The rest of the evening is spent mostly in companionable silence, a few words exchanged here and there as they organize the kitchen and put away the few leftovers there are. Dorian crosses the hallway to his apartment still feeling the heat of the spices on his tongue, and realizes that, for the first time in a long time, he’s going to bed with a full stomach.

He lies in bed, then decides to text Felix, something he’s been avoiding for a few days but feels like he must. The last they talked was when they celebrated his citizenship papers. He got so depressed with the job hunt he completely neglected texting him again.

 

 

And so it is that slowly, oh-so-very-slowly, Dorian ends up obtaining a steady routine, almost against his will. The next day, Dorian arrives home only to find Bull’s front door open, and when he peeks in Bull beckons him for dinner, almost as if he’d been waiting for the other man to arrive. Then, once he’s back at his apartment, he texts Felix, falling asleep with the phone over his chest.

The next day Bull cooks them a traditional Par Vollen dish, and the next he brings over burgers, and the next it’s vegetarian pasta, until a month later Dorian realizes he can’t remember the last time he had an evening meal by himself or the last time he went to bed without at least telling Felix goodnight. On the weekends Bull always curiously hurries out to a second job of his, insisting that Dorian stays for as long as he’d like – which Dorian never does, naturally, leaving just as Bull does – and whenever the mage asks what kind of job that one is, Bull either smiles and waves or tells him he’ll take him there someday to see it for himself. Dorian has a feeling it’s some kind of restaurant probably, but Bull always leaves wearing casual clothes and a duffel bag on his shoulder, meaning it could literally be _anything_ , so eventually he deems it an eternal mystery and decides to let it go.

But the day finally comes that Dorian doesn’t want Bull’s kindness, nor does he want to talk to Felix. It is yet another day of not finding a job, of sneers and insults at his face, and rent day is fast approaching. He wonders what to tell Varric, what to tell Bull, _Andraste’s pyre_ , what to tell _anyone_ , how to say that he’s failed, wonders what he’ll have to do to get by. The first thing that comes to his mind is going back home, but he discards it just as easily. He can’t risk going back. The second thing he thinks of, an option he tells himself would be more realistic, would be whoring himself out, which not only makes his stomach turn and bile rise to his throat, but also means he’ll most likely still be sneered at, only he’ll be getting paid for it. Not to mention that he’ll have to find a pimp willing to have him work, and he won’t be able to choose his partners. Which means not only dirty, disgusting men of all kinds, but also women, too.

It all goes through his head at an amazing speed, making him feel dizzy on top of sick, and he lies down on his bed with his face hidden in his pillow, trying hard not to cry. He doesn’t feel hungry although his stomach turns and twists in painful knots, and he absolutely does not feel like interacting with anyone, so he hopes that he falls asleep and fails to hear Bull’s knock on the door when it eventually comes. Unfortunately, a whole hour passes, and Dorian’s head is still working at ten thousand miles an hour, unable to come up with a better, plausible solution to his problem, and when he hears the knock he groans loudly against his sheets.

At first, he sighs deeply, considering whether or not to answer, but all he can think about is Bull’s puppy eyes if he ever finds out that he purposefully ignored him – and Dorian has a feeling he most likely will. So he gets up and reluctantly opens his door, being immediately greeted by a very cheerful Bull. Maybe too cheerful for Dorian’s current standards.

“Heyyy, Dorian!” Bull exclaims happily, arms open wide. The first time the man did that Dorian thought he wanted a hug, but soon he found out it was just an outwards expression of happiness. It almost makes Dorian smile. _Almost_. “Guess what, all my boys are back in town! Wanna go down to the club with us?”

“Your... boys?” Dorian slowly parrots, and the qunari grins happily as he stuffs his chest out, looking overly proud of himself.

“Yeah! They’re not my boys, per se, but they're my boys, you know! They were out of town for a gig, and now they’re back! You’ve met one of them, Krem, remember him? But you should really come and meet the whole group! They’re meeting up at the place where I work for my second job!”

“So I’ll finally be able to see what it is you do on the weekends, then?” Dorian asks, lifting a brow, but much to his surprise Bull’s cheeks seem to darken, and his smile becomes almost... _shy_.

“Maybe. We’ll see. I think you’ll end up finding out.” Which is probably a synonymous for _yes_ , Dorian thinks, nodding.

Well. _Better than stay and wallow in my own misery_ , Dorian decides, reckoning it’ll do him good to go out and meet new people. Maybe a night out and some good company will help him think of a plausible solution to his problems. Unlikely, but he’ll give it a try nevertheless.

“Well, I had a dreadful day, as per usual. If there’s to be free liquor at where we’re going, then I guess I would endure another evening with you.”

Bull grins, tilting his head in almost a sympathetic gesture. “Drinks are most definitely on me, big guy. Can you be ready in an hour?”

“Wise man,” Dorian says, thankful he’s given this time to get ready. “One hour, and we’ll head out.”

“Wear something fancy!” Bull shouts from behind the door, but Dorian just snorts.

“Don’t I always?” he says to himself, and by the laughter coming from the hallway, Bull wholeheartedly agrees.

 

\---

 

One hour and a half later and they’re at the aforementioned club, something modern yet stylish. Dorian is impressed; the place looks tastefully expensive, lights not too dim and not too bright, and the music inside is just loud enough to pay attention to and comfortably converse with peers. He does sees that there are small stages around the premises, each one holding a female dancer that are just a tad too underdressed for a regular club, and a closed piano next to a shaded main stage makes Dorian wonder what kind of shows this establishment usually offers.

“Chief!” A shout echoes in the room, and immediately Bull turns and howls happily at a group of people sitting on a large table next to the main stage. Dorian recognizes Cremisius, but no one else.

“My boys!” Bull exclaims, swooping down to hug most of them at once with his massive bare arms, and when he straightens he beckons Dorian over, who’s watching the whole scene from a few steps away. He clears his throat and steps up, standing straighter than probably is necessary. One of the elves at the table gives him a slight glare, but everyone else seems to find his presence amusing for some reason.

“Boys, this is the guy I told you about! My neighbor, Dorian. Dorian, these are my boys: Stitches, Dalish, Skinner, Rocky, Grim, and you know Krem de la Crem.” Bull introduces everyone, pointing to each person in turn, and the whole table either grins or giggles, as if they’re in on a joke that Dorian was not told about yet.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Dorian says, bowing slightly, trying to hide his confusion as best as he can.

“So you’re the _famous_ Dorian!” the dwarf, Rocky, exclaims, smiling smugly, and at that Dorian looks at Bull.

“I hardly think I’m _famous_ ,” he says, sitting when Bull pulls one of the two free chairs around the table for him. “Pray tell, what am I famous for?”

“Giving the Chief blue balls, for one,” Cremisius whispers rather loudly from behind his beer glass, and the blond man next to him, Grim, chokes on his own drink and spits out his mouthful, making the entire table burst out with laughter. Dorian bites his lip as he feels his cheeks get a tinge of heat to them, and when he glances at Bull he sees the man’s blushing _hard_ , his single eye glaring fiercely at Krem, who just snickers and shrugs as if he’s done nothing wrong.

It makes him think. Dorian knows Bull had been flirting with him, and consequently he’d been flirting back, but these were all just light teases and compliments with potential intentions – or at least that’s what Dorian convinced himself of, apparently. He was never sure if it was all the qunari’s natural charm or if he was _actually_ interested. He’d certainly entertained the idea once or twice, of asking the men to bed with him – Maker knows he’s had more than a few dirty thoughts involving groping Bull’s massive arms and thighs, or getting a handful of those tattooed pecs – but every time he’d think of asking he feared making things awkward, consequently losing the friendship they have, so rare and precious to him in a land where everyone sees him as an enemy. So the idea was pushed to the back of his mind again and again and again. Maybe this is his longest dry spell yet, but with all that’s been happening with his life he cannot bring himself to worry about sex of all things.

“Just ignore him,” Bull says lowly, leaning a bit closer to Dorian. His breath smells like mint, and he licks his lips nervously. Dorian gulps and makes sure to look him in the eye. “He’s talkin’ shit out of his arse, as usual.”

“Oh, so you’re saying you _don’t_ think Dorian is, and I quote, ‘ _a gorgeous human with a profile to make all the elvish gods green with envy_?” The elf, Dalish, says, and immediately they start howling with laughter again, Bull’s face darkening with a flush that covers his collarbone, rises to his cheeks and nose and goes up to the tip of his ears. Dorian chuckles, then gently rests his fingers over Bull’s forearm.

“I do have an enviable profile, that is true,” Dorian agrees, talking to the table at large, then tilting his chin up and angling his head to the side. “Look at it. Such perfection. I sometimes picture it in marble,” he muses, making Bull laugh behind the hand he’s using to cover his mouth and the rest of the table joke along, everyone turning their heads this way and that to compare which profile is the best. It’s all very endearing and it makes something inside Dorian’s chest warm up, but not uncomfortably so. “I had no idea,” he breathes out, low enough so only Bull can hear, and Bull rubs the side of his neck.

“Look, I’m usually a lot more forward when it comes to... well. Pretty people such as yourself.” Dorian feels his cheeks flush up at that, and the warm thing behind his ribs seems to expand, enough to make something catch on the back of his throat, so he doesn’t say anything, afraid he’ll embarrass himself if he does. “But I felt like you needed a friend more than a good fuck, you know? Something not so complicated. And I also didn't want you to feel obliged to anything.”

Ah. So Bull figured that Dorian would’ve felt, what, compelled to return Bull’s feelings because of everything he’s done – namely, all the free dinners he’s received? It’s not entirely true, no, but at the same time it’s not all wrong. Dorian would’ve probably fucked him out of some sort of feeling of guilt in the end, which would’ve made him feel, well. Used, probably. Like a whore, most likely.

Basically, Bull saw how their positions could be unhealthy and unbalanced, so he didn’t pursuit anything, even though he’s been, apparently, interested this whole time.

Not everyone would’ve been as noble as Bull in this regard. Dorian knows this – knows it very well indeed – and appreciates the gesture more than he cares to admit.

“Well, aren’t you a gentleman,” Dorian whispers, fluttering his lashes and hiding behind his beer, and Bull’s ears flicker just that tiny bit, almost imperceptible if you’re not paying attention, reacting to his mood as Dorian’s seen them doing so many times. It makes Dorian giggle as the rest of their group goes back to teasing Bull, and he watches as Bull recovers almost flawlessly and teases everyone right back.

Their table is, by far, the rowdiest of the bar, but no one minds it. The staff seems to know them all and treats everyone at their table casually, joking and laughing along as they come and go, and the music is a fun pop background noise that Dorian mostly recognizes from the radio. Overall Dorian is having a nice time, and quickly he forgets about the sour mood he was in earlier in the day.

One hour into the evening Dorian is nursing his second cold beer when the music stops, the lights go dim and the lone piano is illuminated, a younger girl in a suit coming to sit down at the stool. The main stage is also lit up, its curtains opening as the girls previously dancing at the smaller stages step down, either moving to the back of the bar or sitting at the lap of patrons who beckons them over. Dorian watches it all with a raised eyebrow, and then from behind the curtains appears two hands, which swiftly push the velvet curtains open just as the piano starts to play, revealing a voluptuous human woman dressed in a red dress. The crowd claps, their own table being the loudest as usual, and Dorian watches as she dances to the song, flaring her dress as she twists and twirls happily.

Dorian sips at his beer, knowing her low cleavage and curvy waist are meant to be enticing, especially given how the crowd edges her on with whistles. Bull nudges him when he turns back to their table to snack on their fries. “Keep looking,” Bull says, and although Dorian is skeptical and not as interested as everyone else, he does turn around, right on time to see the woman stop at the edge of the stage, arms open and palms up. Behind her, the curtains are shoved aside once more, and two men wearing only skin tight speedos that leave nothing to the imagination appear. Dorian widens his eyes, shocked, and the crowd cheers even harder as they step towards the lady, grabbing fistfulls of her dress, each on one side, and _pull_. The whole thing comes apart, revealing a black and red lingerie set underneath that barely cover the woman’s nipples and leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, and to the sound of cheers the three of them resume dancing in sync to the music, rubbing fiercely against each other.

“Bull, what--” Dorian stammers, but when he looks to the side Bull is gone, although everyone else on their table is now brandishing ten sovereign bills to the various female dancers that appear out of nowhere, all different races but wearing a set of lingerie that is an identical match to the one the woman on the stage is wearing. Dorian watches in awe as the dancers ignore him in favor to take the bills being brandished at them and join the laps of Bull’s friends, but the man himself is nowhere to be seen.

“Hello, handsome,” Dorian hears a voice at the foot of his ear, and he jumps, turning to see who spoke. A petite elf girl grins at him impishly, cocking her hip to the side. “Care for a lap dance?”

“O-oh, you’re very kind, but I’m not-- I mean, I don’t--” Dorian stammers, and the elf girl giggles, hopping up onto their table and swinging her feet in the air.

“First time?” She asks, and Dorian nods, gulping. “Always the _best_ time. You Bull’s friend, right?”

“You know him?”

“Oh, we all know him. _Very well_ , if you know what I mean.” She giggles, and Dorian turns, looking back at the stage. At the very front the woman has ripped her bodice off, showing her midriff and having the crowd scream, but Dorian is instead focused on the men behind her, each one swinging on a silver pole that appeared out of nowhere on opposite ends of the stage. When he glances back at the elf she’s grinning mischievously. “Oh, _that’s_ why you don’t want a dance with me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dorian replies readily, sipping his beer to water his suddenly parched mouth, making the girl roll her eyes.

“But _of course_ you don’t. Say, how do you know Bull?”

“We’re neighbors.” Dorian supplies, then sips his drink again, watching the dancers from the corner of his eye and pointedly avoiding looking at the elf, but that doesn’t stop her in the least.

“Well, aren’t you lucky.” She hops down from the table, then slaps a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll have management send some cute boys to see you later. Enjoy your evening, mysterious handsome neighbor,” she tells him, then saunters off, catching the eye of a dwarf who’s smiling widely at her. Dorian wishes he could tell her the truth, that he has no money to spend on rent much less on handsome semi-naked men, but he _is_ at a strip bar, and manners combined with basic common sense say he _should_ have some sort of cash with him. He’ll _throttle_ Bull for bringing him along without warning him first.

Long few minutes pass and finally the three dancers on stage rid themselves of what little garments they have left, and although Dorian tries to act like he’s not affected he has to cross his legs and gulp down the rest of his beer to properly cool down. After a few more synchronized dance moves they wave to the public, swaying their hips as the crowd whistles and applauds, and the piano comes to a stop as they disappear behind the curtains once more. Dorian watches as the ladies on the floor also start to leave, disappearing back to where they came from like shadows, the lights coming back on as the piano player arranges her music sheets and stretches on the bench.

“What did you think, Altus?” Krem asks once everyone’s attention is back to their table instead of the stage or the lap dancers, and Dorian shrugs, trying to go for a nonchalance that deep down he doesn’t feel. He can’t get the image of heavily oiled abs or thick glistening thighs out of his mind. His dry spell has been going for too long, and he can’t deny that he wishes he’d known what he was getting himself into beforehand.

“Well,” he starts, nibbling on a chip. “It was certainly interesting. Almost made me homesick, although the clubs I used to visit back home had a lot less women than this one.”

“The evening’s just starting, Pavus!” The elf girl, Skinner, exclaims. “Bull hasn’t even come out yet!”

Dorian pauses, another chip halfway to his mouth, eyeing the girl intently.

“ _Bull?_ What do you mean?”

The entire table goes silent, Skinner’s eyes wide like a halla staring into a car’s headlights. Rocky slaps the girl on the back of her head.

“You idiot! The Chief hadn’t told him yet!”

“Told me _what?_ Is this about his job here?” Dorian asks, dropping the chip down onto the table. Krem shakes his head and grins.

“Just you wait, Altus. You’ll see.”

Just as he says it the lights dim again, and at the piano the player cracks her knuckles. “There we go, right on time,” Krem laughs, and Dorian can’t help but _gawk_.

A happy, country beat starts on the speakers along with the piano just as the curtains open, showing a hulking of a qunari man onstage, head down and hidden by a wide brimmed hat. Even without seeing his face the wide horns are unmistakable, and Bull looks up just at his cue on the song comes up, scarred lips grinning impishly, his outfit making him look like a skimpy cowboy.

“Who wants to _ride the Bull?_ ” He asks the crowd with his booming voice, the hand on his hip coming down to grab a fistful of his cock through his jeans, and _Maker_ , what a sight it is. Men and women alike scream shamelessly – although the women’s screams are louder and shriller than everyone else’s – and behind Dorian his entire table laughs.

“He _always_ says that!” Skinner screams, breathless, and up on the stage Bull takes hold of the edge of his jeans with one hand, pulling it down just enough to show a bit more of his right hipbone, while with the other he takes a lasso off his belt and starts playing with it to the rhythm of the music.

Soon both men and women come out the back room – all qunari, Dorian notes – some dressed up as cowboys and cowgirls, and some dressed down as bulls. They have fun around the floor with the patrons and with each other, throwing their own lasso around the occasional patron or pointing their horns down as if they’re about to charge, and on stage Bull does intricate tricks with his lasso, dancing around it with a surprising amount of grace, boots clacking and clicking as he skips and turns, the bulge on his pants showing he’s most definitely _not_ wearing any underwear.

Once the dancers on the floor all settle on the lap of a patron – Dorian himself was surprised with a lapful of a _huge_ , brawny dancer with ram-like horns who’s dressed as a cowboy and informed him his first dance was on the house – Bull throws his lasso aside, and both Dorian and the dancer on his lap look up to watch the show.

Bull looks at Dorian’s table, winks exaggeratedly with his single eye, and tosses his cowboy hat towards them. The man on his lap angles his head and catches it on the tip of one of his horns, making Bull and the crowd cheer. After that goes one clothing item at a time: the vest, the barely closed button up shirt, the belt, making the pants hang low on Bull’s hips. Dorian has never seen Bull naked before, no matter that he’s certainly imagined it once or twice, so he takes his time to truly see him now: he has massive pectorals marred with a few scars, huge arms that he’s seen a few times when Bull wears tank tops, and although he doesn’t have prominent abs, he sees that behind the thick layer of soft fat on his middle hides a brick wall of muscles. He flexes, showing off his back, and the women all shriek again, especially when Bull’s hips start undulating rhythmically as a dancing pole starts descending from the ceiling.

“He’s amazing, isn’t he?” The man on his lap whispers in a tone one might use to discuss the weather, and Dorian watches as Bull jumps up and slowly swings down the pole. The movements he makes are unbelievable; Dorian himself has less than half the man’s bulk and body mass, and he doubts he’d ever be able to do these movements with half the elegance and ease that Bull does them.

And then... a few minutes into his routine Bull puts his feet down on solid ground, leans back against the pole and fiddles with the button of his fly, pulls his pants down, inch by inch. Money is thrown onto the stage, more screams are ripped out of girl’s throats, and Dorian... Dorian is holding his breath. His fingers are digging into the dancer’s thigh, who’s also grabbing onto his shoulder for dear life, and for that Dorian is graceful, that he is not the only one affected by the routine so intensely. Briefly, Bull glances his way and they make eye contact, and just for a fraction of a second his playful grin turns shy.

That warm throbbing behind Dorian’s ribs come back in full force, but quickly Bull recovers, smiling widely at the crowd as he shoves his pants down his legs, stepping over them, wearing nothing but his cowboy boots and sock garters on each one of his legs.

Everyone cheers and claps, and although he notices his table getting rowdier he cannot bring himself to pay attention, because in order to do that he’d have to tear his eyes away. Bull plays with himself openly, cupping and squeezing, pinching his foreskin and pulling it back, slowly making his already large cock swell marvelously before their very eyes. When he lets go of himself he kicks his pants off the stage, hopping back onto the swing pole, where he climbs all the way to the top and twists back down, then clings to the pole with only his thighs, back to the public, and leans back to hang upside down. He then takes his hands, grabs on to the pole under his head, and opens his legs wide, body barely shaking with the amount of strength it must take to hold this intricate position. Dorian’s mouth hangs open in awe, and Bull slowly wraps his legs around the pole once more, bringing his body back up and then sliding down to the floor.

The entire bar roars, some people even standing to clap, and Dorian can’t help but clap along, beyond impressed. From there, Bull performs a couple of intricate moves, then hops off the pole and bows down at the edge of the stage before snatching his pants and sauntering off, giving a slap to his own ass on his way out to make it jiggle enticingly.

The man in his lap, long forgotten, nudges Dorian back to reality. “Would you like to go backstage? Bull specifically told me to invite you to talk to him after his routine was over.”

Dorian manages to close his gaping mouth, swallows. Then he nods, taking his phone off the table as the dancer helps him to his feet. Bull’s friends all tease him, and he flips them off to a roaring sound of approval and more laughter that gets lost in the crowd once he steps away and into the backstage.

It’s warmer, Dorian notes first, which is a pleasant surprise. It’s probably because everyone’s wandering around half naked, and shivering doesn’t make for a particularly good routine prep. There is almost as much guys are there are ladies is the second thing he notices, of all sizes, colors and races. Everyone that walks by says hi or smile to the man leading him by the hand, either not noticing him at all or smiling his way, which is a good change of pace from his current day-to-day life.

“I’m Jed by the way,” he says as they turn a corner and knocks on what seems to be a dressing room. “Bull, I’ve delivered your friend!”

The door opens immediately, and Bull smiles widely, a robe wrapped around his body. “Dorian! You’re the best, Jed. Come on in, are you still dancing tonight?”

“Just another routine,” he nods, walking past Bull and fiddling with the clothes rack on the back of the dressing room. “Soon I’ll be home in my soft, warm bed.”

Bull laughs, then ushers Dorian in as well, closing the door behind them both and flopping down onto a tiny wheeled stool. “Ah, I know exactly what you mean. My knee is giving me hell for those stunts I did there. All worth it, though.”

Dorian watches in silence, pensive. He’s seen a metal contraption on Bull’s ankle most days of the week and figured it was a brace of some sorts. The stunts he did, with a weak leg on top of it all, just makes it all the more impressive.

“Quite the show you gave up there, Bull,” Dorian says, trying his best at sounding casual, and Bull smiles, a slightly darker tinge to his cheeks.

“Thanks. This job is fun and pays pretty well. I didn't want to tell you because I didn’t know what you’d think.”

“To be honest I _don’t_ know what to think, besides that it was a very nice routine you and your coworkers all did. I haven’t been to a strip club in a long time.” _And never one as fancy as this_ , he thinks but doesn't say, looking around the dressing room. There isn’t a single peeling wallpaper, nor any stains in the carpet, which is more that he could say about the other clubs he’s been to in the past.

“Well, this is one of the best in the city. Been working here for about three years now.”

“Quite a long time,” Dorian notes, and Bull nods, rising from his chair and walking to where his clothes are folded. Dorian keeps watching him up until the moment where Bull starts removing his robe and he looks away, but not before catching a glimpse of two bare buttocks.

“Are you traumatizing your friend, Bull?” Jed asks with a head tilt, changing into another costume, and Dorian smirks as he feels a blush rising to his cheeks yet again. “Unless you _want_ him to be traumatized, in which case, should I help?”

“Stop being a smartass, Jed,” Bull chides playfully, and Dorian chuckles, looking back when he sees that Bull is just buttoning his shirt back up. “Come on, Dori. Let me show you around.”

For a few minutes Dorian and Bull walk around the club, peering into rooms and walking through their back garden, closed during the evening hours but open in sunny days for outdoor meals. The night is chilly so Dorian hugs his coat tighter around his frame and stuffs his hand in his pockets, walking beside Bull in a comfortable silence much like all the others they’ve shared in the weeks that have passed. Slowly, they navigate closer to each other, both allowing their steps to slow down, and Dorian smiles, feeling truly happy for the first time since he came to this wretchedly cold land.

Bull takes them back inside once Dorian starts to shiver, and at their table Bull’s friends holler and tease them, asks Dorian how he liked getting an eyeful of Bull just like the day he was born. “Except for the cowboy boots, he didn’t have _those_ on when he was born,” Krem pipes up, making everyone laugh harder. Dorian accepts the teases with a few well worded barbs back their way, and the group embraces it all like they’ve already accepted Dorian into their little group.

As the hours go by and the evening wears on, they leave one by one until Bull and Dorian are the only ones left.

“I’m gonna help the guys close up,” Bull says after he finishes his last beer. “You can wait backstage so we can go back together, or you can go ahead if you don’t wanna wait.”

“May I help too?” Dorian asks, already halfway off his chair, and Bull pauses for a half a second before shrugging.

“Sure. The more, the merrier.”

And so they help clean the premises, wiping tables, turning chairs over and sweeping the floor. Once the heavy work is done Dorian gets tasked to polish the piano while Bull mops the stage, and once he finishes the top he notices there’s just the two of them in the room, the rest of the staff already gone for the evening.

And then, just for a second, he feels like it’s just him and the grand piano.

Dorian runs his fingers through the keys, feels an itch in his hand that he hasn’t felt in months. He never thought he’d ever get to play again, and now here he is. A black grand piano, almost begging him to play it.

He places the rag and the wooden polish next to him on the bench, sits, and lets the first key run through the salon.

It’s like second nature to him at this point. The piano is tuned beautifully, and the keys feel smooth under Dorian’s hands. He remembers how his teacher always told him that his fingers weren’t nearly long enough for him to be able to play as well as the old masters, and so it was out of spite that Dorian practiced harder, worked to make his movements faster, all to make up for his slight disadvantage. He quickly became top of his class just like with everything else he did, but unlike everything else he studied, piano was a passion, a small luxury he indulged himself in whenever he had the free time.

Although they don’t resemble much – or at all, really – the club’s piano rather reminds him of the one Alexius owned, made out of oak wood, ancient and well loved. The keys almost seemed to fit under Dorian’s fingers, like it was _made_ for him, music flowing from his hands as naturally and easily as water that runs down a stream. He remembers the day he helped push the monstrosity into Felix’s room, where he was temporarily banished to staying in bed all day, too tired from chemo to move around much. His hair clung to his forehead and he opened about three buttons from his dress shirt to cool himself, and Felix laughed at the sight of him, disheveled and stinky. Dorian didn’t mind one bit.

That old piano helped Felix a lot when he was sick, and to this day he says Dorian and his music are the reason he got better at all.

He thinks of Felix’s favorite song from back then, and changes the tune. Takes a deep breath, focuses on the instrument under his hands.

“ _The piano is not_ ,” Dorian starts, his voice low and the keys going over it. “ _Firewood, yet._

_They try to remember, but still they forget._

_That the heart beats in threes, just like a waltz,_

_And nothing can stop you from dancing._ ”

 _Quite a melancholic song_ , Dorian thinks, prolonging the next section so he can take another deep breath, feel the words deep inside him. Let them lead him instead of the other way around.

“ _Rise from your cold hospital bed,_

_And I’ll tell you you’re not dying._

_Everyone knows you’re going to live,_

_So you might as well start trying_.”

He continues, his fingers light, skimming over the keys as if they’re dancing instead of playing.

He remembers Felix singing along with him, lying on his bed, cheeks sunken and eyes dark with exhaustion. And a genuine smile on his lips as tears streamed down the side of his face.

“ _The piano is not_

_Firewood yet,_

_But the cold does get cold, so it soon might be that._

_I’ll take it apart, call up my friends,_

_and we’ll warm up our hands by the fire._

_Don’t look so shocked, don’t judge so harsh,_

_You don't know, you’re only spying._ ”

Another deep breath, a pause to swallow down the lump in his throat, will away the burn in his eyes. His voice gets lower, the notes get softer. Dorian’s voice fills the room, echoing on the walls.

“ _Everyone knows it’s going to hurt_

 _But at least we’ll get hurt trying._ ”

Oh, how he misses Felix.

“ _The piano is not. Firewood, yet_.” he sings, his voice so low he’s sure only he can hear, the way his throat seems to tighten making it hard for him to breathe, and along the next few notes he hears a voice, low, gruff, maybe just slightly out of tune. But beautiful nevertheless.

“ _But a heart can’t be helped_ ,” Bull sings, and Dorian turns his head to look at him, fingers never missing a beat. Never faltering. The man approaches the piano with steps so light Dorian never even heard him step off stage. “ _And it gathers regret._

_Someday you’ll wake up_

_And feel a great pain_

_And you’ll miss every toy you’ve ever owned._ ”

Dorian sighs out, breath shaky. He feels the first tear run down his cheek, but he wills himself to pay it no mind. Keeps playing, steady. Steady.

“ _You’ll want to go back_ ,” Bull continues, leaning against the piano, facing Dorian. The mage doesn’t look up; he fears that if he does he might see something there that he might not be ready for. Not yet. “ _You’ll wish you were small,_

 _Nothing can slow the crying._ ”

At that, Bull reaches forward, runs a thumb under Dorian’s eye. Wipes away a tear. Dorian shakes, closes his eyes. Lets muscle memory lead him through the rest of the song.

“ _You'll take the clock off of your wall_

 _And you'll wish it was lying_.”

The piano solo that comes next is as easy as breathing. Dorian runs his hands through the keys, feels the song deep within him. Sniffs a little. Realizes how much this song speaks to him.

It was – _is_ , Dorian corrects himself, still is – their favorite part of the song. He remembers Felix laughing as he bumped Dorian’s hip to make him scoot over, laughing as their fingers tangled over the keys, laughing as they worked through and remade the piano solo together. Made the song their own.

And when he was too weak to join Dorian on the piano, he’d hum along to the notes as he lay on his back on the bed, hand moving in the air idly, following the keys in his head. The memory brings a small, sad smile to Dorian’s lips.

At the next part, he sings right along with Bull, their combined voices making for the most emotional duet he’s ever been a part of.

“ _Love what you have_

_and you'll have more love._

_You're not dying._

_Everyone knows you're going to love,_

_Though there's still no cure for crying._ ”

The last note runs through the salon, and Dorian stills his fingers over the keys. Realizes he’s shaking just slightly, his ragged breathing sounding awfully loud in the overwhelming silence of the room. Bull kneels next to him, takes his hands in his own, rubs his thumb over his knuckles.

“Why do you cry, _amicus?_ ” Bull asks, and the familiar Tevene word makes Dorian both gasp and sob at the same time. He ducks his head and Bull shushes him, reaches forward, cradles his cheek on the palm of his maimed hand. Dorian leans into the touch and holds Bull's other hand with both his own, tightens his grip. Sighs. “There, there. Don’t you cry, big guy.”

“Why are you so... infuriatingly gentle?” Dorian whispers, no jest or heat behind the words, his voice slightly nasal. Bull grins, a small, tentative thing. Warm and kind. He shuffles closer, touches foreheads with Dorian.

“What can I say. Pretty ‘Vints are my one big weakness,” Bull replies, and Dorian can feel his breath tickling his lips, the edges of his mustache. He shivers, tenses. When he looks up, he sees right into Bull’s single eye, half lidded and so filled with emotion, with fondness, he wishes he’s not just seeing things, projecting and seeing what he wants and not what’s actually there. Wishes it all to be genuine, to be true. He looks down at Bull’s scarred lips, at the short stubble around his mouth and chin, and like a magnet he leans closer, just a fraction of an inch. Bull’s breath hitches and his tongue darts out almost automatically to lick his lips.

“ _Dorian_ ,” he breathes out, like a prayer, like the name itself is something precious. Leans closer still, angles his head just so, and Dorian allows him, feels his heart hammering away inside his chest, making him almost suffocate.

And when they meet at last, when they kiss – it’s pure bliss.

Despite the fact that he's broke, that he’s got kohl smeared down his face, that his nose is stuffy and his eyes are puffy and red from crying, it is _perfect_ , and more than anything he wishes he could stretch this moment so it’ll never end.

But he can't, so instead he burns it to the back of his mind, like a brand. Takes note of every little thing about it and files it all away, almost methodically. Something deep within him tells him he won’t ever get to experience anything quite like this, a kiss with so many unspoken things, so many questions and answers of itself, so much warmth and joy and gut wrenching sadness. Dorian never knew he could feel so much in such a little timespace. In such a gentle connection of lips.

When they finally part, Dorian breathes out through his mouth and brings a hand up to rub at his eyes. Bull quickly reacts, reaching into his pocket and handing him a clean handkerchief, which Dorian notes is the very same one he handed to him the day they met, embroidered with little flowers. He huffs a laugh and accepts it, wipes his cheeks and nose with it.

“I’ll wash it and give it back to you,” he whispers shyly, but Bull just shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it. Keep it.”

 _As a token?_ , Dorian wonders as he nods and pockets the cloth. Bull rises from his crouch, knee cracking loudly, and offers a hand to Dorian, helps him get up from his seat.

“Let’s go home, big guy,” Bull says, and wordlessly, Dorian nods and follows him out the door, Bull locking up behind them both.

 

\---

 

The ride back is silent, but not painfully so. Dorian leans against the open window, feels the cold wind on his face ground him back down, for once in his life cares very little about his windswept hair. Tomorrow, Dorian decides, he’ll call Felix, damn the phone bill. He’ll figure it out eventually.

After today he needs to hear a familiar voice.

Also he doubts he can trust written words to describe what he’s pretty sure was an almost religious experience.

When they stop at the building's parking lot, Dorian climbing out of Bull’s car, they still say nothing, but walk towards and up the stairs next to each other, arms touching just slightly. It’s comforting, almost. Like a reassurance that whatever happened just a few minutes ago actually did happen and wasn’t just a dream.

 _What happens_ _now?_ , Dorian wonders. He’s kissed a lot in his life. Kissed plenty, if he might say so himself. But he’s never kissed like _this_ before, however or whatever “this” is. With no immediate intent behind the kiss, with so much feeling, something so gentle and pure. It feels... weird.

Dorian prides himself with knowing how to read kisses. He knows when one kisses looking for a one night stand, when one is looking for a slow, deep fuck or just a quickie in the club’s bathroom. But he’s never just... kissed for the sake of kissing alone. It makes him wonder if Bull feels just as confused and whiplashed as he does, from that kiss that was just a press of lips that said everything and nothing all at once.

He knows Bull is interested in him, though, knows he finds him handsome and likes spending time with him, his friends made that much clear earlier in the evening. And now they’ve _kissed_ , and for the first time in his life Dorian seems lost as to what he’s supposed to do now.

Maker, what a mess.

Dorian feels his lips tingling with phantom memory, has to hold himself back from touching them with his fingertips. He realizes he wants Bull to kiss him again, but has no idea what else he wants besides that. What he wants after. He’s never had to think about the _after_ before.

Does he want Bull to fuck him? Well. Perhaps. Okay, most certainly _yes_. Bull is handsome, that is absolutely undeniable. Experienced in bed too, from what little he’s heard from the two nights he’s gone out with his friends. He’s also gentle. Kind. A true friend, something so rare in Dorian‘s life he dares not say it out loud, for fear Bull might not consider him one as well.

A true friend like Felix, he wonders? Like a brother?

Dorian glances at Bull’s arms, remembers those hands gripping himself while he danced, and thinks, _no_. Not like a brother, then.

Still a friend. And that doesn’t mean nothing to him. It means _plenty_.

He wonders what it means to Bull.

“You alright in there, Dorian?” Bull asks, startling Dorian out of his thoughts. They’re already in their hallway, standing in between their apartment doors. He shakes his head, stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets and looks at the floor, huffing out a breath. How long has he been daydreaming for? “Copper for your thoughts?”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Dorian blurts out without thinking. He doesn’t have to elaborate; Bull immediately knows what he means. He shrugs, looking away from Dorian.

“It’s like I said at the club. I was inviting you in for dinner constantly, I didn't want to drop that bomb on you and make you think like you owed me anything. I liked you the first time I saw you, Dorian, and I liked you even better after that first evening when we went out for drinks. You’re an exceptional guy, and I enjoy your company. Living by myself is, well. Pretty damn lonely sometimes. Krem used to live with me until a few months ago, when he moved in with his girlfriend. It’s just me now. And I thought you’d appreciate having someone to talk to at the end of the day, too. No strings attached.”

Dorian nods, looking away at his door, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’re not wrong. I did enjoy your company. Still do.” He whispers quietly, and Bull grins, looking relieved. Dorian grins right back. He steps closer to the man and lays a hand on his shoulder. Reassuringly.

“If you want, this doesn’t have to mean anything,” Bull says, his eyes gentle. Like he’s trying to sound soothing but ends up more nervous than anything. “We can each go to our own apartments today, and tomorrow I’ll invite you over for videogames and my home cooked curry, the one I’ve been promising to cook for you. Or not. Whatever you want.”

 _Whatever I want_ , Dorian repeats in his head, and thinks, _I don’t want this to not mean anything._

“And what do _you_ want?” Dorian asks, trying to sound uninterested and doing a shit job of it. Bull shrugs again, but this time his shoulders are tense.

“Honestly? I’d love to kiss you again. Then maybe take this further at your pace, see where it goes. And if that’s not what you want, I... still very much want to be friends with you. Share dinner and laugh and play games and go out for drinks every now and then. But I’ll completely understand if you don’t want any of those things anymore after tonight.”

He is being truthful, Dorian notices. A man that admits what he wants but refuses to force himself onto other people. Dorian looks at him, _really_ looks at him now, and asks himself.

Does he _want_ this?

Bull shifts his weight to his good knee, stretches the thigh of his bad leg. Sticks his hands in his pockets. Nervous. Anxious.

Dorian can understand the feeling.

“I do want that, too. To kiss you again.” He says shyly, feeling his cheeks heat up. Bull’s eye widen just a fraction, his whole face lighting up, like a kid in Satinalia morning.

“Yeah?” He asks, giddy with joy, and Dorian can’t help but smile. He shakes his head and steps closer.

“You big oaf,” he murmurs, giggling, reaching up as Bull leans down, the both of them meeting halfway with wide smiles on their lips, a warmth that has nothing to do with the strong arms wrapped around his torso running down Dorian’s spine.

And he wonders if this is what coming home feels like.

 

\---

 

The next day Dorian wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, feeling cozy and light. When he opens his eyes he sees that he’s lying atop Bull, head pillowed on his naked chest, and Bull is snoring softly, both arms wrapped around Dorian.

The previous night was amazing. _More_ than amazing, in Dorian’s book. They stumbled into Bull’s apartment after fumbling awkwardly with the keys – Bull dropped them a total of three times, making them both fall into a fit of laughter – and when they were safely behind doors they immediately navigated to the couch, where they made out for so long Dorian lost track of time. Hands roamed, sure, but both were so tired that nothing much happened besides that. Dorian woke up just as the sun was rising to Bull carrying him to his bed after they both had most likely passed out with exhaustion. He took off his jeans and dress shirt beneath the covers without a word and went right back to blissful sleep.

It’s the first time he’s ever slept in someone else’s bed, Dorian notes, not counting the few times he blacked out after so much drinking. It is, he has to admit, a good change. A _fantastic_ change at that. He snuggles closer to the pectoral beneath his cheek, hums happily and stretches his legs, toes catching on Bull’s calf. This, he notes, feels more intimate than any kind of kinky sex he’s ever had, more than any kind of hidden tryst or one night stands he’s ever engaged in. Waking up in someone else’s arms, warm and content and _safe_.

He knows he should be nervous about it. Anxious, even. But Dorian is not a morning person, and he doesn’t feel like gathering the energy to be anything besides sleepy and tired at the moment. So he just closes his eyes again and sighs, relaxing completely in Bull’s arms.

Not a minute later he feels fingers running through his hair, combing the gel out of his locks. Dorian hums, rubs his face all over him like a lazy cat. Bull chuckles.

“G’morning sweet cheeks.”

“Hmm, my cheeks truly are sweet,” Dorian mumbles, turning his head up to peer into Bull’s single eye, and now he sees that the scar on the left side of his face is uncovered for the first time since Dorian met him. It feels more intimate than seeing him fondle his cock on stage the night before, like a sign of trust, or a silent permission to peer at a vulnerable part of him. It makes Dorian smile softly, and in turn Bull watches him, eye fond, fingers insistent on its petting, almost as if knowing Dorian’s smile for what it is. An understanding.

Dorian realizes how they both just shared an entire conversation between them with no words spoken whatsoever in just a few seconds, and it feels odd, how wonderful it feels, to have someone who understands him so easily. Who trusts him like this.

The moment passes and Dorian yawns, stretches his arms up and over his head. The curtains on the window are thick enough to not let any sunlight in, and for that he’s glad, because he’s nowhere near ready to leave his cocoon of blankets. Bull glances to the side, peers at the clock on the side table and _tsks_.

“Ah, shit. It’s way too early, big guy. Sleep some more, won’t you?” Bull whispers, leaning down to kiss the top of Dorian’s head and gently wiggling away from him. Dorian hugs the pillow Bull was using so he can smell the man on it, and allows Bull to properly tuck him back in.

“And where are _you_ going?” He asks, already halfway gone back to sleep, and Bull grins.

“I’m just going to make us breakfast. Go back to sleep, Dori.”

And so he does.

Dorian wakes up again what feels like five minutes later, nostrils filled with the smell of eggs and pancakes. When he opens his eyes he sees Bull, only in his boxers, approaching the bed with a tray of food, complete with two cold glasses of orange juice and a fresh gerbera daisy on a tall vase for decór.

He has no idea where he got the flower from, but it’s unbearably cute.

He sits up and yawns, hiding his mouth with the back of his hand. “How long did I sleep for?”

“Another hour and a half,” Bull says, placing the tray above Dorian’s legs before climbing back onto the bed and leaning back against the headboard, joining Dorian back under the covers. There’s enough food on the plate for four people, Dorian reckons; two plates with toast, a plate with a stack of pancakes, another with scrambled eggs and crispy bacon. Dorian is downright impressed. “Consider this as me officially courting you, _monsieur_.”

“Orlesian? Aren’t we fancy,” Dorian grins, then scoops a bit of eggs onto his bread. Strings of cheese are pulled right along, making his mouth water, his body now fully aware that he only had finger food for dinner the previous night. “Oh, you _spoil_ me.” He smiles, then quickly digs in.

Breakfast is spent mostly in silence. Dorian hums around most of his mouthfuls, delighted, and Bull nudges him shyly every now and then. It’s all very endearing and sweetly domestic. Something Dorian never saw himself doing with anyone, not in a million years.

“So.” Dorian starts when the two of them have finished the stack of pancakes. “Courting. I must say, I’m not at all familiar with the concept.”

“Neither am I,” Bull admits, wiping his mouth on a paper napkin. Dorian raises a single brow, and Bull continues. “Never been in a serious relationship before.”

“You’re joking.” Dorian says flatly, and Bull shakes his head.

“It’s true. No one is interested in anything else but bedding the brute, big qunari. Sometimes just the once. Sometimes a few more times. But that’s it, mostly.”

Dorian is shocked, to say the least. He thinks of Bull, who cooks like an angel, sings beautifully and looks at his friends like they’re his whole world. Bull, who tells awful puns and laughs like they’re the best thing ever, who talks to him about Thedas history like only a scholar would, who patiently taught him how to play videogames and was more than happy to introduce him to the joys of Fereldan pizza. Who, above all, goes everyday to work wearing a different set of colorful, custom-made scrubs, and although he talks very little about the kids he takes care of, whenever he does Dorian feels like his smile could blind the sun itself.

 _That_ Bull.

Is it the horns or the scars that drive people away, he wonders. Or is it them that draw people in?

Or is it both?

He doesn’t say it out loud, instead reaching out and taking Bull’s hand, squeezing the fingers tightly.

“They’re all fools,” Dorian says, voice weaker than he intended, but he trudges on anyway. “If only they got the chance to _really_ know you--”

“They’d see someone littered with flaws. A _failure_. An empty vessel of a person, fumbling, _lost_ without the Qun. Without a purpose. Susceptible to being incontrolable.” Bull interrupts him, face suddenly turning cold as a rock, and at Dorian’s startled and pained look he shakes his head, breathing in sharply. “ _Shit_. Shit, I’m sorry, that was rude of me. It’s just... _fuck_ , Dorian, you... you deserve _so_ much. And, some days, I’m not sure if I can be all that, y’know? But. But if you let me...” He turns his hand palm up, intertwines his fingers with Dorian’s. They feel clammy, cold with nervousness, and it makes something in Dorian chest _clench_ , like barbed wire wrapped tightly around his ribs. “If you let me, I wanna be with you. Wanna try to become a person who can give you all that you deserve.”

Dorian quickly places the breakfast tray on the floor, then moves until he’s got both his legs thrown over Bull’s lap. Cradles his face in one hand, the other still clasping Bull’s and with zero intention to let go.

He takes a deep, shaky breath, and looks deeply into his eye.

“I’m not perfect either, Bull. Far from it. I complain too much, the slightest breeze makes me cold, and I’m very picky about personal hygiene. Also I’m awfully vain, a bit of a narcissist, really. You know all this, no matter that we’ve known each other for so little. I’m sure there’s plenty more adjectives I could add to this list. And yet.” His bottom lip wobbles, and Bull’s brows draw up, worried. He leans closer again and they touch foreheads, like the previous day at the club. Dorian sighs out. “And yet. Here you are. Willing to be with me, to accept me for who I am despite it all.”

Dorian wipes a stray tear away from Bull’s cheek and smiles. “Besides, all I ever see in you is a clever, _wonderful_ man. Not a failure. _Never_ a failure. A failure would've never helped me that day when I most needed, or offered me food when all I had in my fridge was ketchup, or kept me company because I was terribly lonely, always without second intentions. Never.”

Bull shakes his head, sniffs, then wordlessly presses his cheek to Dorian’s hair. Dorian, in exchange, hugs Bull’s chest tightly, allows them to be like that for just a little while, lost in the moment.

“...does that mean you’ll let me?” He murmurs softly, both hands now cradling Dorian’s, and Dorian smiles so widely he feels his cheek hurt with the pull.

“Yes, you big sap. Of course.” He replies, kissing the skin closest to him. The fingers around his hand tighten minutely, then loosen again. “How could I say no,” and thinks, _I think I have a boyfriend now._ Weird how barely anything feels different, how pretty much everything else will basically remain the same, except for the fact that they’re now probably going to spend a lot more time kissing rather than doing anything else.

Sunday is spent in what Dorian will later call a peaceful domesticity. He lazes about in Bull’s bed, then moves to the living room couch when Bull says he’s going to make his famous curry – which Dorian _has_ to try. The smell of spices is so strong it nearly makes Dorian’s eyes water, and the first mouthful sure does it. He laughs as he chugs the glass of milk Bull set aside just for him, but keeps eating, delightfully pleased.

At the end of the day Dorian’s lounging against Bull, watching TV together after several heavy make-out sessions – against the kitchen counter, over the sink after brushing their teeth, leaning against the hallway wall – that never led to anything more, much to Dorian’s surprise but not disappointment, when Bull hums, thoughtful.

“You know,” he says idly, scratching the stubble on his chin. Dorian looks up and hums right back, like a question. “You’re pretty damn good at the piano, Dorian.”

“Oh. Well, thank you. That’s kind of you to say.”

“No, really.” Bull turns a little on the couch, and Dorian scoots down lower to lie against his thigh instead of his arm so they can look properly at each other. “You’re _incredible_ at the piano. Also your voice… _damn_ , Dorian.”

Dorian laughs, a blush rising to his cheek. He rubs his face gently over Bull’s thigh, and peers up at him with half-lidded eyes. “I can’t help but think you have a point with all this showering of compliments you’re doing.”

“Yeah, I do, actually. How do you feel about playing at the club?” Bull asks, smiling, and Dorian freezes, widening his eyes.

“What, like. A job?”

“Yeah! Exactly like a job.”

At that Dorian rises from his position on the couch, staring incredulously at Bull. _He cannot be serious_ , he thinks. _He cannot_.

“Bull, do not do this to me, I swear to the Maker—“

“What? No, _shit_ , I’m serious!” Bull raises both hands in surrender, laughs a bit awkwardly. Dorian’s mouth fall open in shock and Bull grins shyly. “Jed was thinking about getting someone to work weekdays since our current piano player can only come on the weekends. They put music on the speakers but it’s not the same as actual live music, y’know?”

“Jed? You mean _the lap dancer_ _?_ ”

Bull grins. “He runs the bar, big guy. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t work there.”

Dorian, for a few seconds, feels utterly numb.

He’s sitting in Bull’s living room, half naked and pleasantly warm, and, apparently, with a job prospect. A _real_ one. A job he’ll not only be actually really good at, but one he’ll also _enjoy_ having. He never asked for this, never asked Bull to help him like this, and yet, here he is. Yet, here they are.

The shock dissipates, and just as Bull starts to say something to break the silence Dorian throws his arms over his neck, mashing their mouths gracelessly, laughing as he smacks their teeth together rather painfully, amused and giddy instead of embarrassed. It’s a first in Dorian’s life, that the awkwardness that often comes with intimacy amuses him, feels _normal_ to him, but it is, and he vows to himself that he won’t ever have it any other way.

They have sex for the first time right there, lying on the couch. It happens almost like a logical turns of events that neither one foresaw, a natural progression of things that they didn’t plan on happening so soon but feels right somehow. Kissing gives way to groping which turns to rubbing, clothes suddenly too warm, too uncomfortable, mouths and hands and hips become too restless, untamable, and the rest comes together like pieces in a puzzle. It’s all clumsy and rushed and desperate, frantic and slicked with sweat, bodies too big and limbs too long to properly fit on the couch, and yet... yet, it all feels utterly _right_. There’s no tension between them, no unspoken obligation in it all, no pressure or awkwardness. It just _happens_. It happens because Dorian’s overwhelmingly happy, because he cannot resist the expense of rippling muscles before him for another second, and most importantly because he _trusts_ Bull. And because Bull trusts him right the fuck back.

And just that small little factor makes it the most amazing sex Dorian’s ever had in his life.

The cuddling that happens afterwards shocks Dorian even more than the actual sex does, but he embraces it wholeheartedly, sighs on the crook of Bull’s neck as he melts under the hand that gently caresses his nape, the thumb that traces little circles over his hip. They eventually move to the bedroom, where the cuddling turns into a second round of slow, gentle, unhurried sex that drifts them both to sleep, the rest of the evening completely forgotten in favor of just spending as much time as possible in each other’s arms, basking in each other’s warmth, before the day is over and they each have to go their separate ways, if only for a little while.

As little while as possible, if it’s up to either one of them.

 

\---

 

 


End file.
